Writing Prompt

Agent Nguyen was fuming. “You what?”

“Ayyy. It ain’t my fault I’m a lucky little ducky?”

Nguyen’s face reddened. “Yeah, dumbass, it is your fault. It’s only your fault, you dumb sonofabitch.”

“Yo, hey now… You know, there was a time when someone, Fed or not, mouthed off to—“

“Save it, grandpa. You ain’t gonna do anything besides make my life harder.”

Tony Mangenonzo—aka Tony the Shark aka Tony Three Toes aka Anthony “Angel” Angelenzo aka Darwin McMurtry—let the ice in what was left of his early-afternoon bourbon clink mockingly against the Walmart glass. He cocked his head and added sarcastically, “You sure you aren’t just jealous, Dougy? I mean, that much money, you could retire a hundred times over, right? What do you pull in a year? 55k? Shit, man, I used to spend that much on suits in a year.”

Nguyen didn’t take the bait. “Well, the only ‘suit’ you’re wearing now, ‘Norman Furtwangler,’ is that of an assistant manager at Petco. So, maybe consider that shit before you get all high-and-mighty.”

Tony smoothed down his velour tracksuit, making sure to let his gold chains find their way outside the neckline, catching sunlight through the sliding glass door of his modest apartment. “Ah, you forget, agent Nguyen, that was yesterday. Today is different. Today, I am friggin’ rich! Again! Can you believe that shit?” His laugh quickly turned smoker-cough, but he covered with a, “I quit those things years ago, you’d think I was still at two packs a day, huh?”

Nguyen glanced at a full ashtray on the coffee table. Once a liar… When he looked at the old gangster he couldn’t help thinking of places to bury him. He knew that Tony knew that, but he didn’t care. ‘Mr. Straightlaced is afraid of letting down the bureau,’ Tony had told his then girlfriend. ‘What a rube; A real G-man’s G-man,’ he had condescended. Their relationship had been like that for years now: Nguyen doing his job to protect the man; Tony unwilling to admit he was happy about it.

“Yeah, well, you might have the winning ticket—if it’s real—but whether or not you get to keep any of the winnings will be up to a bunch of government lawyers. Don’t worry, though. I’m sure they’ll play fair with an upstanding citizen such as yourself. I’m sure they won’t lobby that your newfound wealth shouldn’t be used to reimburse the United States Marshal’s Service.”

Tony feigned a look of shock before realizing that he really didn’t know the answer. Could they keep the money? His money? He bought the ticket with wages he earned from that shit pet store job. Huh…? Quite a conundrum, he thought to himself. Oh well, better to play it off like he was in charge.

“So, whaddayousayin? You sayin that the United States Government is going to steal my winnings? Not let me collect? What are you gettin’ at here, Agent Nguyen? I want to know what I’m up against here. What kind of people I’m dealing with. ‘Cause from the sounds of it, seems to me that what the government lawyers are planning to do ain’t all that different from what me and my compatriots used to do. And most of them are in prison or dead, now. Don’t quite seem fair, does it?”

Nguyen paused for a moment. “No, I’m not saying anything of the sort. The government will follow the appropriate actions as they are laid out in the current SOPS.”

Tony let the man get his rote, robotic statement out before allowing himself a chuckle at the dimbulb’s expense. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You dumbshits ain’t never had this happen before, huh? This ‘uncharted territory?’” He waited, but no reply—which was as good as agreeing. “Yeahhhh… That’s what I figured.” He laughed before, “Don’t worry, buddy, I’ll be real, real sure to pay my taxes.”

Nguyen looked at his mobile.

“What you lookin’ for, Agent?” Tony let the words slither out slowly, a circling snake of the sarcasm he’d come to rely on to sublimate his habit of violence. “You waitin’ on the bosses to tell you what to do? Guess we ain’t to different, than, are we? I get it: I used to have to wait for the boss to tell me what to do, too.”

“The only thing we have in common is that we both hate you.”

“Ohhhh, that’s a quality jab, G-Man! Nicely played. What is it my grandson says, a ‘burn?’ You burned me. Listen, I owe you for Detroit, so when I collect my money, maybe I get you and me a pair of matching jet skis. Whaddayou think? Me and you, taking the lake by storm, popping open a couple of brewskis, scope’n out the local talent. Whaddayasay?”

“I only have to keep you safe, not be your wingman, asshole.”

“You’re hurtin my feelings, Nguyen. Truly. I’m very delicate in my old age.”

Nguyen ignored him, looking back at his phone.

“Lemme guess, they’re not finding a legal means for you to take this money from me, yeah? I hit the six and now you dumbshits don’t know what to do. This shit ain’t in the Ess-Ohh-Pee, is it?”

Nguyen checked his phone again, frowning at the message that finally popped up. “Nope. You are one hundred percent correct.” It had nothing to do with the lottery or with Tony at all. It was an update from EPSN: The Dodgers were down six in the forth. “Nothing we can do but wait and hope, I guess.”

“Hah, I told you. I’m one wealthy SOB, you sumbitch. Rich again, baby!”

“Yep. Get dressed I’ll take you there so you can collect your winnings.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Woo-boy. Sounds good to me. I’ll be right back, chauffeur.”

Nguyen took a moment, letting the old witness-protected-mobster-assclown taste victory before, “I’d be honored to drive you down there. By the way, be sure to dress for TV.”

Tony’s countenance changed. He was suddenly finding it hard to breath, for his heart to beat. He turned, coming back out of his room. “Whaddayoumean ‘dress for TV?’”

“Exactly that, big man. You will be presented with one of those over-sized checks. Every channel will be there to record it for the nightly news. These lottery winner stories go national! Aren’t you excited?” His smile turned to an icy smirk. “They love to do puff pieces about this kind of thing. I mean, elderly retail assistant manager wins millions, c’mon, that’s TV News catnip—no pun intended. I’m sure you’ll get lots and lots of screen time!”

“I can say ‘no’ to being on TV.”

“Sure, you can. But, you know, you can’t tell who might be there,” Nguyen held up his mobile, glancing at the scores, “what reporter might now someone who knows someone, might get a hot tip.”

“You sonofabitch! You tryin’ to get me killed or something? You know I can’t say shit about winning the lottery to no one. That’s why I called you instead of those Marshall goons. They’d bury my ass in the desert and split the winnings sure as shit.”

“Relax, old man. I’m just messing—“

Agent Nguyen moved on instinct, becoming conscious only a fraction of a second later of all-too-familiar gunfire. He pulled Tony forcibly to the ground, one hand keeping him down, flat against the kitchen linoleum, the other sweeping his standard issue Glock across an imaginary horizon.

There.

He fired two rounds into the first threat, a barrel-shaped male, approximately 50 years old, let himself be silhouetted across the drawn curtains.

The next two rounds found their target as well: a well-muscled 20-something burst through the door, splitting the wood along the door jamb. His momentum carried him too far into the room, throwing off his proprioception. He tried to recover by hip-firing his weapon like an old-timey gunfighter but it was too late.

Two down. Out of how many?

“Get off me, you friggin gorilla!”

“Shut up and stay down.”

“I can help. Let me get my gun, I’ll—“

A glass shattered above them as three shots—randoms, likely intended to keep them from moving—found their way into the small space.

Nguyen’s ears were ringing.

Tony’s everything was ringing.

They yelled at each other: Let me get up; Shut up dumbass. I’m trying to keep you alive; I can keep myself alive; You’re not even supposed to have a gun!

Every sense was heightened as the two men did their best to determine who was where, and how many. Nguyen looked at the small table four feet away. His cell phone had fallen beneath it when he had dropped it to return fire. It was his only means of calling in backup, since Tony wasn’t allowed to have a landline or a mobile.

Four feet.

A mile in a gunfight. He had two buddies get dusted through a small crack no more than three inches wide in the wall of a library in Iraq, so four feet was eternity.

They both froze. Movement. Sounds. Down below them. Faint—or maybe not, his ears were still trying to reset.

Nguyen looked around, desperate for some clue as to who was out there—half-tempted to let them have the snitch; He was useless anyway. Besides, he was supposed to be the Marshal’s problem, not his.

No. Can’t do it. Shit. He signed up for this life.

Nguyen opted to ignore his phone for the moment and take a second to breath. To observe. No one was approaching. If they were many, they’d already be attacking in force, confident they’d have superior numbers to make up for the lack of training that was thus far fatally obvious. No, they were probably four strong, a hit team made up of whatever resources the Contangelo family had on retainer, probably out of Denver. That meant a few things, all of which fired through Nguyen’s brain simultaneously. It meant someone had tipped them off. Someone who knew that Tony had called him, or a lucky spotter eyed him as he came into town. Dammit, Tony! It also meant they weren’t a cohesive team, which meant no tactics training, as evidenced. It meant that the other two or three men were outside the small apartment, probably hiding behind whatever car or cement planter was closest when the gunfire started. It meant most of them were small-time or focused on the less violent interests of the family, but when called they had to step up.

It also meant there was maybe one real killer in the group, and Nguyen hadn’t seen him yet.

“Come on, get off me.”

“Fine, sit up, but keep your back against the dishwasher and don’t move.” The old man did as he was told, getting up with surprising agility, keeping his head low, and slamming back into the dishwasher with a thud.

Orient. Where was he? Second floor, apartment complex. One small window in the bathroom, everything else faced the parking lot where the bad guys were. Bathroom escape was a non-starter; No way that old man survives it. Two windows on either side of the doorway, both have closed curtains. No sirens yet. That meant even if someone called the police, help was minutes away. His car was out front, but put him in a killbox if the other shooters were doing as he suspected.

Those asshats are probably using my car as cover, he mused.

Something caught his eye. A glass vase sitting in a concrete planter just outside the door. It was moving. No, not moving, reflecting movement.

Shooter number three.

Nguyen put two rounds through the thin sheet rock near the door. He heard the man’s gun slide off the edge of the walkway, slam into the hood of what he was certain was his duty vehicle, and clack against the asphalt below. The man, conversely, made no movement at all, save to slump, dead, against the concealment he’d mistaken for cover.

Nguyen wondered if it was one-on-one now. Better odds, but still not great. Even when he had superior numbers it was never good to be where bullets were.

“What’s the plan, Dougy? We just gonna sit here?”

Tony was right. Time to decide.

“Wait, you hear that?”

“Here what?”

“Sirens. The Calvary.”

Nguyen heard nothing but the ringing, having fired his Glock multiple times in an enclosed space with no hearing protection. The old man’s muffled voice was the only thing that made it through. “How can you hear anything?”

“I turned my hearing aides on.” The old man winked, pointing at the small devices housed inside his ear canals. “I can hear them. Help is on the way.”

Nguyen still didn’t hear anything he trusted as sirens. But… there was something else. A hum. A rattle. It felt like the ground was moving. What were they doing? Setting up explosives? Digging through from the apartment below? Wheeling in some kind of tank? What was making that—

Nguyen would forget to include this in his official report, or ever talk about it with anyone. He simply reached up, behind the old man’s head, and pressed ‘cancel’ on the dishwasher.

The ringing was finally subsiding and he heard a voice, muffled, but clear enough. They both heard it. One man. He was yelling from outside, below them, surely hiding behind a car as he suspected.

“Hey, listen, all I, uh, all WE want is the old man. You ain’t gotta do nothin’ but decide if you want to live. You walk out now, take a right, go down the back stairs. That’s it. That’s all you gotta do. You won’t see us again. You hear me? We’re all good if you do that. We got no beef with you. You can say you got separated from him during the gunfire, or there were too many of us, you fought valiantly. Whatever. I don’t give a shit. Just walk out and we’ll take care of the rest. You hear me up there? I know you do. I know you hear me, cop. Just walk out. He ain’t worth it.”

“You gonna leave me here to die, Dougy? Do what he’s tellin’ you?”

“Shut up.”

The old gangster, to his credit, was going to go out the same cocky bastard he’d always been.

“It’s all good, like he said. They’ll just let you walk on outta here, all you gotta do is let them have me.”

“I said shut it.”

Tony laughed. “I’m just bustin’ yer balls, my man. But listen, this is my mess, not yours. You did what you could. You gotta family and shit. Just leave me your piece and I’ll give ‘em hell before I leave this mortal coil.”

“I’m not leaving you shit. And you’re not going to die.”

Time to decide. What was next? He only heard one voice. If it was a four man squad that meant man four was stuck. He had seen his compatriots get dropped and he wanted to run, but he couldn’t. He was trapped by the Code. The people he worked for didn’t allow for excuses, no matter how self-preserving or logical they might be. That meant he had to find a resolution. The man was down there, close, crouched behind a car, trying to figure how to kill Tony without getting killed. That’s why he was yelling up instructions, trying to get Nguyen to give up the fight. Trying to control the scene. Trying to play it off like he was They, but that was bull. He was alone.

One-on-one.

“You hear that?” Nguyen yelled. “My ears are ringing like crazy and even I can hear that. Sirens. Lots of them. That’s my team, buddy. Team Good Guys. You really want to be here when they show up? You really want to—“

What happened next happened quickly. First, footsteps. Heavy ones. A big man was moving quickly toward the door way. Nguyen felt the movement more than heard it, one footfall after the other.

The light coming through the doorway suddenly dimmed as gunshots shook the small apartment. A .45. He knew it from the moment the barrel flashed in front of him. A ‘man’s gun,’ but shit for accuracy.

Nguyen planted his feet against the old man, pushing against him so that in one motion Tony slid along the linoleum, slamming into a cupboard as Nguyen, with equal-and-opposite force, slid the other direction, supine, raising his much-more-accurate 9mm to the massive man’s torso and firing everything he had left in his double-stack magazine, forming a bloody trail from groin to heart.

No dramatic death, no movie-only acrobatic reaction: The giant man just fell where he stood, crumbling onto himself.

Nguyen knew he was dead before he hit the ground.

More ringing. Gunpowder. Sweat. Now urine, shit. The man had let loose when he died, the smell a last, degrading warning against a life of crime.

Nguyen’s muscle memory had him already reloading his service weapon before looking after Tony. But Tony was fine. Standing, now. “Get back down! You don’t know, get down, dumbass.”

Nguyen holstered his weapon and scrambled to get up as the old man grabbed a lamp from a nearby end table and started bashing the last dead man’s head with it.

“You think you can come into my home, you fat piece of shit? You think you, after what I did for you, how I vouched for you, you come in here…” Old muscles and older, tar-filled lungs gave up and Tony dropped the lamp. Nguyen pulled the old man back, behind him, protecting him from… what? Was anyone still out there?

The sirens were close. Then lights, red and blue, bounced off of everything reflective.

“Put some real clothes on. We’re leaving.”

Tony did so, as Nguyen took his FBI ID out of his pocket and opened it, making sure both hands were visible.

Once the locals were convinced he was who he said he was, and that he was tasked with taking Tony with him, the local police went about their various tasks: Ensuring the area was clear, talking with other apartment residents, taking pictures, statements, etc.

Tony emerged, dressed in slacks, button-up, cardigan. The swagger was still there, but not the arrogance.

“You done good, kid. You really saved my ass.”

“It’s my job. Now hurry up, I want a drink.”

“Hell yeah. My treat. In fact, what’s your favorite bar? I’ll buy it for you!”

“Yeah. You do that.”

The bullet that tore the back out of Tony’s skull was either fired with a suppressor or came from so far away that Nguyen didn’t hear the report of the rifle.

It was a top-level shooter either way.

Tony had been walking behind Nguyen, wearing a Kevlar vest borrowed from local PD. Nguyen was taller, by at least three inches, so the shot had to have come from somewhere elevated. That meant it was at least a thousand-yarder. Nguyen realized too late that the sniper had probably been there the whole time, firing into the apartment; A backup plan for sure—the kill team having better odds—but also using the gunfight to conceal his first few rounds, not trusting a difficult shot to a cold barrel.

The one real killer.

Didn’t matter, really. Investigators found nothing: No sign of a ‘sniper’s nest;’ No shell casings; No reports of anything strange or out of the ordinary.

That meant lots of things to Nguyen, but there was no point in following up. Tony was a one-off. He only mattered because he was in WitSec. He only mattered because he was a snitch.

Now he was dead.

After a few weeks he barely thought of the old man, save for their very last interaction together. The very last moment before their tether was cut. Nguyen worried for months that someone had seen him. That some beat cop’s bodycam had recorded his slight-of-hand. But no one did. He was in the clear.

He waited two weeks—the longest two weeks of his life—before announcing he was leaving the Bureau.

“Are you crazy? With your military service you’re looking at a pretty excellent retirement in less than a decade, Doug,” his boss had protested. “What are you going to do?”

That was the million dollar question. Well, to be specific, the $138 million dollar question, after taxes.

A lot of money anywhere.

Like Belize. Or Reykjavik. Or on a yacht, just off the coast of Marseille.

Turns out, you really can claim your winnings anonymously…

"So how did you get all this money again?" his coworker asked him.

"My - uh - my great aunt's nephew died and left me his fortune. Yeah. And now I'm trying to pay off my debt and such." He stammered back. Little did his coworker know that his story was completely false. He had won the secret lottery and wasn't allowed to tell anyone about his winning.

"Okay... but aren't you gonna get a limo and mansion and stuff?"

"No, no. I'm just trying to pay off debt, live comfortably, and invest the rest so that when I eventually marry and have kids, they will be set for life."

"Wow, finally. Some newly rich person who doesn't want to spend it all immediately. What a breath of fresh air."

"How many suddenly rich people have you known?"

"A few, here and there, but you know, rich people don't like hanging with peasants."

"I guess I'll just have to torture myself and stay friends with you." he joked, elbowing her in the ribs.

Two years later, he and his coworker are married with a baby on the way. But he is still not allowed to tell her how he actually gained his massive fortune. He also had to make sure that he told everyone the same story about his great aunt's nephew, just in case.

He and his wife bought a nice house in a quiet neighborhood and kept their jobs. Once the baby came, she would quit her job to become a stay-at-home mom, which they could easily afford.

He finished writing the letter and sealed it in an envelope with his wax seal. It detailed every part of his fortune and how he came by it.

His son, and only his son would be allowed to read the letter. He placed it with his last will and testament and waited for death to take him from the world.

"It's real alright. I won" Rereading every number in order and I can't believe it's real. All we've needed was money just a little would do a lot of good for us. "Maybe with the money, we'd have food or clothes and even a notebook for school." Poor is close but the word your looking for is unfortunate. Before now there was no hope in finding wealth. I'm only 12, not old enough for a job but my younger brother depends on me. "I can't keep this secret any longer."Knowing the lottery money will cost me more then it's worth, I need to tell someone and get the money for my brother.But I can't help but wonder what they will do to me if it gets out. No matter what I need this."So promise you will help me and you won't tell anyone."I can tell her jaw wanted to drop.100 thousand is a lot for my age which is why I told the only adult I know. "Show me the ticket." For many reasons I don't trust my mother. Anyone else would help but personally I think she just wants her money back from the past 12 years. But she is my mother so I revealed the winning numbers on the piece of paper. "No way baby girl you won! How about we split it. You and your brother only need so much." Like I've said before there are many reasons I don't trust her. "No, I have to go get the money mom. We have to go claim it and-" Then a burning handprint stains my face. It's too often that she hits me. But when your mother drinks her emotions, feeling bad for her is all u can do. "No? You selfish greedy child! All these years of mistreatment and stress is from you two! The least I could get is a thanks for putting up with this shit! Give me the ticket!". When it comes to getting what she wants, my mother will show her true colors no matter who's around. Nothing will stop her especially not me. So I ran,far. They say money changes you but now I realize, money changes the people around you. I've just barely told one person and almost got robbed by my own mother. I've decided no money is worth this kind of change. The lottery is a gamble anyway. Someone else can have it. It's sitting at the deli a block away. No one I know deserves the money it'll do good for someone else. I knew it was too good to be true.

To win By lucky choices Earning more than enough Paying off debts of life Saving for rainy days Spoiling loved ones With earnings

The bone-chilling downpour of rain felt heavier than usual tonight. Perhaps it only felt this way due to the over-saturation of my antiquated coat - that being said it’d been a long, stormy day. My treacherous, penultimate journey wasn’t something I pursued joyfully, however it was whole-heartedly the right thing to do.

I was cursed. Since my juvenile years luck was always something that I perceived more as a playful pursuit; if you worked your game strategically, my favoured outcome would be inevitably assured in enrichment. I was naive.

It started with scratch cards. Once a week, twice a week, the balance of spendings & winnings gradually tracked in my favour so I moved onto bigger things - leading me to the horses where I generally had the largest spike in profits. Regrettably I could have stopped once my beautiful ex-wife gave birth to our darling daughter Cleo, the day she was born secured me the biggest joy I’d ever attained & with that came more detrimental excuses. I’m not sure whether I was trying to kid my wife or myself when I said I did it all for her but unbeknownst to me the grand amount of wealth I hopefully preached of in her name was thoroughly insignificant compared to the security that I, as her father, should have provided.

I’m ashamed of what I did. The lies, the thievery, years of trust were tarnished through my own selfish desires. Nobody was foolish enough to believe my justification of “I did it all for my baby.” The only one foolish enough to believe, if anybody - was me. I took her home, I took her childhood and now I can’t even see my precious child to compensate all the wrong-doings. Her mother filed for a restraining order - initially I was immensely aggravated by this decision however looking back, maybe it was the best thing to happen to me. The damned life I live now is all about owning the streets whilst searching door-to-door for a brief seclude on the most perishing of nights. Truly, I had reaper what I had sewn.

Even after my life had caved in the gambling persisted, to an extent; one lottery ticket a week. I’d not one so far but it was the only thing I could afford on my wholly uncertain income from my fellow man. There was a light in me determined luck would somehow find its way to my favour - I wasn’t going to let it die out.

I was right. I won. The whole jackpot was mine. I was hesitant to trust my own perception of the winnings as it seemed far more likely at this point that I was going crazy, rather than that I’d actually won. However despite my own disbelief I really was just that lucky - as I’d always known. The sheer possibilities that this opened for me was surreal; I could buy a car, buy a house, start my own business, give back to my daughter-

Pessimistic realisations streamed through my person like a diminishing hot flush. No matter how much I wanted money to buy me back my family, I couldn’t. There was no way I could even make contact just to notify them of my winnings.

All of this lead me to where my story began, exhausted & drenched under relentless showers of rainfall. Taking my penultimate walk to the baron flats where my family resides, my daughters winning ticket enclosed within a sealed envelope. Along with a farewell note, before taking my final stroll:

“Cleo, it’s your lucky day.”

The End.

I stared at the three gold stars on the ticket, jaw dropping as I realised…

I’ve won the lottery? I HAVE WON THE LOTTERY?!?!

The man behind the counter notices my exited dancing and squealing, and smiles. Then his face drops and he notices the black laminated paper in my hand.

I am surprised as he pushes me out of sight and whispers, “Don’t tell anyone! Oh no! This is bad!”

My joy dissipates. “What?”

“This ‘lottery’ ,” he curls his fingers in the air. “Is a sham by the mafia to move money! They call it The Secret Lottery! You need to get out of here and not tell anyone you have won! Or the mafia will get you!”

I give a dry laugh, “yeah, yeah. Where’s the cameras? This is a joke, right?”

The door slams open and a figure wearing a fedora struts through. The shop keeper pushes my hand holding the ticket behind him.

“I’m here for a lottery ticket. Oh, hey! I’ve won! How about that! I’ll be by tomorrow for my winnings.” He stuffs the ticket into his coat and walks out again.

“Don’t tell anyone!” The shopkeeper whispers and I nod slowly.

Later, at home, I’m looking at my bank account and breathing through a paper bag. It’s gone from £24.95 To £1000,000,000,000,000,000,24.95. (I’m no good at numbers formatting!)

I was so rich! But I couldn’t tell anyone…

My partner burst through the door. “What the heck happened to our account! Have we been hacked!?” They screamed.

I calmed them down. “I won- Uh- I mean, my dear great-great-great-great-great auntie died. She had a lot of money from, Uh, her… llama farm in… ITALY!”

“Why did she give it to you?”

“Uh, I’m not sure, I mean SHE ONLY LIKES ME!” I blurt.

An eyebrow is raised. Not mine. “What was her name?”

My eyes scan the room. “Auntie… fan..daisy… water… books.” I lick my lips. “I’m sure I mentioned my dear Fandaisy waterbrooke before?”

“When’s the funeral? Why didn’t she give the money to anyone else?”

My mind spins. “She… died at sea. And my side of the family hate her.”

“Why?”

“She was a stripper.”

“I thought she had a llama farm?”

“It was… also a strip club?”

My partner looks at me askew. “An auntie fandaisy waterbrooke died at sea and left her entire fortune to you because this side of the family hate her because she was a stripper at her llama farm in Italy?”

I lick my lips again. “Yes.”

“Okay then.” He shrugs. “We can visit into the llama farm/strip club to pay our respects.”

“I wouldn’t!”

“Why not?”

“Because… because she trained her llamas to eat… people? That weren’t her? And the strip club is under investigation from the IRS.”

“Her llamas eat people? What happened at the strip club?”

“Everyone forgot to pay taxes on… thongs.”

I keep my face straight as he looks baffled. “O-kay… maybe we can visit her family?”

“She had none. They got eaten by the llamas.”

“What about her house? Does she live in Italy?”

“Yes but she kept llamas there as pets and left the estate to them.”

“Hmm. I would have liked to meet your auntie Fandaisy.”

“Me too.”

I always wanted to help people, to change the world. Winning the lottery allowed me to do just that. The only catch was that I couldn't tell anyone. Not a single soul could know I'd won. So I created a pen name, a dummy email account, and a dummy bank account. Nothing could be traced back to me.

I achieved the quiet, solitary life that I wanted but I still had millions left over. I've spent the last four years anonymously donating money to find cures for rampant diseases, helping people get any help they need, and funding projects that help heal the world rather than destroy it. No one knew it was me. People would send thank you letters to a PO Box that I had set up under my pen name.

Finally, my money was dwindling. All I had left was enough to live on. Though I don't have long to live. Not anymore. While I spent my fortune helping others and the world, I got sick. The doctors told me it was curable, easy to manage. I didn't care though. I wanted to do what I could for the world and if that meant spending money on other people instead of myself then so be it.

When I cashed in the winning ticket I knew exactly what I was going to do. First of all, I had to keep my newfound riches a secret. That meant no paper trail or banks. So I tried Bitcoin- a modest investment. I financed some worthy causes like water treatment in Africa, Animal rescues, and struggling small businesses’ ‘legal fees. But I still had quite a bit of cash, which I kept in a lockbox. I only spent it in small bills. I had some expenses I paid a little at a time. Quite a few times I would only carry a dollar or two when I went out in case I got mugged or something. I also kept a low profile. I refused to post anything on social media. I ditched my contract phone for a burner and subscribed to a VPN. I chose anonymity for any donations and never took credit for any good deed connected to those donations. Then I had a brilliant idea. I would bury the rest of the cash in my yard, but the exact location would only be discovered by solving a complex code. After years of keeping my secret, I took the code and it’s solution and sent it to my best friend Melinda. I had incurable cancer and wouldn’t live much longer. I wanted her to have it so she could start a new life.

I unfolded the cheque for about the hundredth time today, still staring in shock at the numbers looking up at me. The amount of money written on the paper was far more than I could ever imagine winning, let alone earning in my entire lifetime no matter how many jobs I took up. If it weren’t for the bank seal in the corner and my name in elegant scrawl beside the words ‘to the order to:’, I might’ve thought it all a horrible, unfunny joke. But this was real. Though it had been two days ago I now, it still felt incredibly surreal that I was the winner of the September jackpot.

“Hey, Frankie, have you seen my grey jacket? I swear I put it in the dryer last night…”, the sound of my brothers voice approaching my room startled me from my dumbstruck daze. I quickly stuffed the cheque under my pillow and readjusted myself into a sitting position just as he entered the room. I looked up quickly to see my brother, Dante, leaning against the doorframe. He peered down at me with a raised eyebrow.

“Everything good, Frankie? You lookin like I caught you in the middle of a crime”, he said, still looking at me questioningly. As much as I wanted to yell at him about knocking before entering, I knew it was an unfair ask. The bedroom, the only bedroom in our one bedroom apartment in fact, belonged to both of us. Dante’s bed in the corner of the room and his closet stuffed with clothing was proof enough that he could come and go as he pleased.

I scratched my head sheepishly and avoided his gaze.

“I er- yeah I’m all good. I thought you had left for work”, I said quickly, hoping he couldn’t sense the nervousness in my voice. A part of me wanted desperately to tell Dante about the cheque under my pillow but I knew better than to do that. Dante, though he was the most caring and protective big brother who constantly looked out for me, he had one major vice in life. Dante couldn’t seem to hold on to a reasonable sum of money for long periods of time. His gambling addiction nearly made us lose the apartment on several occasions, and I couldn’t trust him to not immediately dig his claws into the money if I did show him the cheque. Though it was me who had played moms lucky numbers, it had been Dante’s $20 I had borrowed go buy the ticket. Because the lottery ticket was bought with his money, there was no doubt in my mind that he’d want equal shares of the cash. It wasn’t selfishness keeping the money from him, it was in his best interest that I at least waited a while before telling him.

“Oh?”, Dante questioned. A wolffish grin spread across his face and he waved a hand.

“Okay, okay. I’m heading out. I’ll leave you to do… whatever naughty things it is you wanted to do”, Dante said, a laugh on the edge of his words. I felt my cheeks blaze at his insinuating words but I didn’t correct him. It’s not like I could exactly make up a better excuse for my jumpiness.

Dante slipped into the room quickly and grabbed the navy jacket laying on the floor near my closet.

“I’m just borrowing your jacket, okay? I’m heading out now. I’ll probably be back late so lock up behind me. Bye Frankie”, he said, pulling the jacket on and standing by the doorway.

He paused and turned back to look at me, his expression considerably darker.

“Hey, uh… I’m sorry that I lost my last paycheque at Rita’s. I promise I’ll cover electricity if you can pay rent this month”, he said, eyes downcast.

I bit my lip, knowing that the money I had won would be more than enough to pay rent and electrical builds for the entire year. Though I had been pissed at Dante for losing the money at Rita’s poker bar, it was cruel to reprimand him now that I had the money to make up for his loss.

“Yeah, yeah, no problem”, I said finally. Dante said his thanks and quickly left for work.

When I was sure he was gone, I pulled out the cheque again and marveled at it. The first thing I’d do with this is pay off all our overdue bills and buy groceries, but then what? How do I use this money to improve our lives without drawing suspicion?

I played with the frayed edge of the paper and considered my choices. Our younger sister, Pricilla still lived with dad in our old apartment, maybe I could sent some money to her. After mom died and our family got fractured into two halves, I avoided visiting dad and Cilla. Dante and I still never made up with dad after the big fight that caused us to move out, but I still chatted with my baby sister now and then. Just last night she called me in tears about how she won’t be going to college because like Dante, as though it were a genetic trait shared between father and son, our father also had a money problem. He had apparently gambled away all of the college funds our mother had set aside for Cilla, something that made me burn with with rage. Maybe that’s another thing I’d do- pay for Cillas college tuition. I could make it look like a scholarship from an anonymous donor or something.

Yeah, that seemed like a good start. But what do I do with the rest of the money? How exactly does one spend five million dollars while pretending they still earn minimum wage?

“I don’t know what you mean? I’m not spending ‘extravagantly’ and besides, why do you think I owe you any explanation even if I was?”

I turned my back on Laurie after my feigned outburst of indignation. She had seen me in the Gucci store in the mall and, surprised, had asked if I had really spent so much on a purse. Fact was, I had come into money. A whole, big, glorious bunch of money and I was telling no one. See, I had made it a point for years to but a Quick Pick lottery ticket every Friday and finally, finally! it had paid off to the tune of millions.

That had been the end of last year, and on the advice of a newly hired financial advisor, I was keeping my new wealth a secret. He said that people start blabbing about the money and pretty soon every third cousin and every lost-touch-with former acquaintance comes out of the woodwork asking for something.

Now I had just lied to one of my best friends, but my ‘don’t tell’ rule was one I would not break.

“Look, Laurie, I have wanted a real Gucci bag for decades and have been saving up for it forever. This one was a markdown so I decided today was the day. Sorry I snapped at you. Let’s go to dinner. On me.”

She looked at me strangely. “You never treat.”

“Well tonight I am. I also got a nice bonus from my boss for helping out with a project so I feel flush. I owe you for being a grump.”

“Well, okay. Let’s go to Sbarro for a pizza slice,”

“Heck no! My bonus is burning a whole in my pocket and I want to go to Cafe Vito. You up for that?”

“Wow! That really must be some bonus if you’re treating at Cafe Vito!”

I just smiled, grabbed her arm, and headed to the other side of the mall. When we walked in, the hostess grinned. “Back so soon, Ms. Swartz?”

Uh-oh. I didn’t factor in that this girl would recognize me. I had taken to eating here once in a while by myself so I should have thought this through.

“The hostess knows you? Here?” Laura as giving me that look again as we were shown to our table.

“I’ve known her a long time. She used to wait tables at Millie’s diner.” I had my fingers crossed behind my back, hoping I would not be struck down by lightning because of the string of bald-faced lies I was spouting.

Laurie and I had craft cocktails and split a shrimp cocktail. She looked shocked when I ordered the filet, but she finally did the same when I said, “Bonus money. Go for it!”

It was always fun with Laurie and tonight was no exception. We laughed and chatted through the delicious, exorbitantly priced meal, and eventually our cute waiter, Rob, set the tab on the table and I pulled out my credit card and set it down. I heard Laurie gasp.

“You have an Amex Platinum card? What the hell, Maggie? You sure as hell didn’t qualify for that on your salary even with a supposed ‘nice bonus’ so what the shit is going on?”

The jig was up. I stared into her eyes and spoke very softly. “Okay. I will tell you but if I do I’ll have to kill you.”

The look on her face was precious and I could tell she half thought I meant it. I guess I had been acting pretty strangely. I sighed and then finally spilled the beans about the lottery.

“So now you know. And you have to promise me on the life of your not yet born child that you will say nothing about this to anybody. No one. Promise?”

“Can I tell my mom? She’ll be over the moon about…..”

“ I said NO ONE. That means not your mother, not your hairdresser, not even a whisper in the ear to your cat. I do not want my life turned upside down by people driving me crazy for lans, handouts, and charity.”

She paused. “Well okay. Our deep dark secret.”

She paused again then very seriously said, “But I need to get new brakes on my…”

When she saw my face she laughed. “I’m kidding! Oh my God! I wish I had taken a picture!”

Surprisingly, Laurie was good for her word. She has been wonderful and we’ve been able to do a lot of fun things on my lottery winnings because I can trust her. A trustworthy friend is as good as winning the lottery. Well almost as good. But not quite.