Thousands (Dollar 4)

And then it would be all over.

I would beg for forgiveness and ensure I paid every penny back.

“On air in three, two, one.” The cameraman mouthed, snapped the board, and vanished into the darkness past the recording lights.

Fuck, this was truly happening.

My host didn’t look at me, staring with a bright, idiotic smile down the lens at an audience I didn’t want to see. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the weekly interview of our lotto millionaires. Let’s begin by welcoming Elder Prest and giving him a warm congratulations on his recent win.”

I wanted to rip the cameras apart. To tell everyone in their homes to stop watching. They didn’t need to know who I was. They didn’t need to see a shame-riddled liar.

The presenter, with his over-hair-sprayed brown pompadour—and holy shit, is he wearing mascara?—smiled in my direction. “First, tell us, Elder, how it feels to have won such a large amount?”

I balled my hands. What was I supposed to say? It’s amazing, and it’s changed my life, and I’m ever so fucking grateful?

Those were lies, and I’d had enough of them.

I wouldn’t bow to these assholes. If I was a pickpocket, then they were involved in a larger theft. The lottery was a Ponzi scheme, and somehow, I’d become the head of it.

When I didn’t answer, the presenter prompted. “Eh, how about you tell our viewers your first thought when you were informed that the lotto ticket you’d purchased was worth seven hundred and ninety-eight million dollars?”

Shit, those numbers didn’t seem real. They still didn’t—even though they’d appeared in the hastily created bank account under my new false name. Getting the forgeries to do such a thing had been yet another headache-inducing story.

I muttered, “It took a lot of getting used to.”

And I didn’t buy the ticket, you asshole, I stole it from some poor guy’s wallet.

The win had a sour taste because it was destined for someone else. Did they need the money? Did they even know what they’d had?

The poor schmuck’s license sat in my pocket even now. Ever since I walked into that convenience store with his stolen wallet, wanting to buy a bottle of water to slake my day-old thirst, I’d carried the license around as a good luck charm and a reminder of what a bastard I was.

I’d paid for the drink with a five-dollar bill from his wallet. Along with the bill popped out a scrunched-up lottery ticket. The perky attendant had snatched it up before I could stuff it back into the well-used leather and squealed as she scanned it for me. Bells rang, lights flashed, she bounced up and down like a moron.

I almost fled the scene, thinking I’d been set up and the cops were on the way. Only for her to shove the monitor in my face and reveal all those terrifying numbers.

I was the winner.

Of the biggest jackpot in years.

I’d won.

No, he’d won.

And I, the thief, had stolen it.

I’d torn away any chance he had of quitting his job, spoiling his wife, and giving his children the kind of future only a select few could dream of.

I’d not only stolen his wallet.

I’d stolen his life.

And shit, that guilt? It was just as bad as killing my father and brother because I’d killed an alternative life for my victim—a life he would never know thanks to me.

That night, I’d become blind drunk and spilled the news to Selix. If it wasn’t for him, I would’ve ripped up the winning ticket instead of officially lodging it the next day. Only because we’d fought as enemies for so long did I listen to his friendship and sage advice.

He was the reason I was dressed like a fucking peacock and accepting false congratulations. And the bastard refused to take half. Hell, I’d even slurred around the cheap vodka that he could have it all. That my karma was too sullied to accept another false achievement.

But he’d flatly refused.

Some noble reason he never told me and still to this day kept secret. He preferred to be second, not first, but without him…I doubted I’d still be alive to even think about accepting almost one billion dollars.

After that fateful night, my life had been a whirlwind of executive meetings, form signings, and limelight interviews that I cursed to the depths of hell.

I’d never had money. I’d been happy in my family of lower means with my beaten up cello, annoying little brother, and strict but doting parents.

Everything I ever loved was gone.

And who was to blame?

The Chinmoku.

The TV interview suddenly went from fakery to full of purpose.

I’d been burning with the need to extract revenge and honour the deaths of my family for years. Now, I had a way to bring that revenge to fruition.

In a fit of rage, I decided to use this fleeting fame to my benefit. Glowering down the camera lens, I answered the questions the presenter asked. I preened for the suckers at home wishing they were in my shoes and dreaming of the day they’d have such a stroke of luck.