(Josie Sayz: This is a flash-fiction piece that I
wrote for a creative writing assignment. What would happen if your protagonist
won the lottery? Congratulations to anyone who can guess who I based the
protagonist on.)
It had been another useless day. He slumped down on
the sofa with his head in his hands and groaned. He flinched as a spring sprang
up between his legs. With another groan he lifted his left leg over the spring
and shuffled along the sofa. He jolted into the arm as the sofa’s front leg collapsed.
Gripping his ribcage he pinched his eyes shut and groaned for the third time.
This had been his luck of late. The wallpaper was pealing, the floorboards were
creaking, his nemesis had broken down his front door, the cooker had broken,
his toilet was flooded, his latest invention burnt a hole in his carpet, his
clothes were dirty, the rent was overdue, his plutonium delivery had been
delayed, his new neighbours blasted music at inappropriate hours, his car had
been towed and he had nothing edible left in the fridge. It was the price he
paid for living in the cheapest apartment block for a forty mile radius. He
couldn’t afford to live in any of the new, fancy high-rises with ensuite
bathrooms and glossy laminate flooring. He tried explaining this to the
door-to-door broom salesmen: he had no use for a broom as his floor was
carpeted and he could not afford laminated flooring. He ended out purchasing
three brooms and a mop, not that he had any use for them, or any money
remaining after the salesman had left. The man had taken his every last penny.
As the pain in his ribs subsided, he slid his hand down the back of the sofa’s cushioning and rummaged around for the television remote. Patting his hand around, he gave a jerk a few times when placing his hand upon numerous sticky and furry objects. He gave a shudder, certain that something under there moved. Clasping his fingers around the controller he yanked it out, shaking off the remainders of various leftover meals, before turning on his television set. He flicked channels to the news. Nothing would calm his mind more than watching mindless people race around panicking about something that probably was not even going to happen. He admired conspiracists, always managing to create fear in the public eye. He smirked. Soon it would be his creation that they would be fearful of… someday.
He dragged his fingers up is face and through his hair. Hearing the voices of children playing outside, he gave another loud groan. Getting up, he went over to the window and slammed it shut. “Rotten kids,” he mumbled under his breath. ‘Maybe my next invention should be something to eliminate noisy children,’ he mused. That would surely earn him some credit back at headquarters. ‘I will call it the Children Noise-inator-inator…’ he beamed, straightening his back. His brow furrowed. His back returned to his usual slouch. ‘Okay maybe the name needs a little work.’ Shoving his hands into his lab coat pockets, he gazed down out of the window. His eyes fell upon the skip outside, piled up high with his failed and fragmented inventions. He gave a sigh and trudged back to the sofa.
He needed a new idea. Something. Anything. His floor was littered with various balls of paper, all containing random sketches, ideas and designs for new creations. All failures. One was too technical. The other was not technical enough. One lacked originality. Another involved the invention of another invention, which happened to lie in the skip outside. He could have rebuilt it, but he needed more steel casing and he had used the last of it on his giant Shrinkinator, which had also found its way into the skip outside. He could not go and rummage around in the skip for his old inventions or parts either. He did not want the residents of his apartment block to know that they were his or to think that he was using these strange creations. As it was his nemesis that usually destroyed and threw out his inventions, he was certain that the residents of his apartment block were yet to connect these mysterious mechanisms with him. He did not want them to become suspicious of his behaviour – they already thought that he was odd, due to the strange sounds that derive from his apartment and that he was always seen wearing the same clothes: a white lab coat, black t-shirt and grey trousers. He could not buy any new parts for his inventions either. There were only so many internet purchases one could make from a credit card with no income to make any repayments. His occupation may have been Evil Genius, but unless he actually invented an evil contraption to sell to his boss, his money situation would only get worse.
His status was a stake. He had not invented anything decent in a long while. His last brilliant invention was his Invisibility-Ray, but he accidentally turned it invisible during a fight with his nemesis and could not find the controls to make it visible again. All of his other inventions had either failed or being destroyed by his nemeses, before he had had the chance to put them to evil uses. How was he supposed to up his reputation amongst his fellow evil inventors if his arch nemesis always turned up and spoilt his plans?
“Think Goof, think!” He growled at himself, thumping his palm against his forehead. A reason for his unpopularity with his fellow evil inventors and his constant clumsy nature, he put down to his name: Goofy. His mother had named him after her favourite ‘Disney’ character and now he was stuck with a personality to match. He hated her for it. He had longed to be somebody, like a Hank, a Leon or a Tyson… someone strong, someone daring and someone different. But he was stuck being a Goofy.
Just as the pounding of his head was beginning to cause him some serious pain, he froze. Lowering his hand from his head, he stared up at the television. They were announcing the lottery result. He had a lottery ticket brush up in his face earlier that day and had pocketed it, in hope of putting an end to his miserable poverty.
Squeezing his hand into this pocket, he pulled out the ticket. With his elbows on his knees and the tickets held between his thumbs and forefingers, the leant forwards. His eyes widened. He held his breath. His heart hammered against his ribcage. His pulse pounded through is body.
“Four… eleven… seventeen…” the news reader announced.
“Yes… yes… yes…” he whispered. His eyes widened. His eyebrows rose. His brow puckered. His heart drummed louder.
“Twenty-eight…. thirty-seven…”
“Yes… yes…” Sweat tricked from his brow. He edged forward. “Come on…”
“And forty-two.”
He stared at ticket. He held his breath. His vision blurred. His bottom lip trembled. “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes. YES!” he shouted. “I won! I won!” He leapt up off his seat, jumping up and down, his arms swinging above his head. “But this means-” He stopped. His arms fell to his sides. His eyes widened. He jerked his head towards his desk on the opposite side of the room. He ran. Grabbing his notebook and pen in his right hand his slid all of the other table’s contents to the floor (excluding his lamp) with his left arm. Flicking on his desk lamp he skimmed open pages of his notebook, sat at his chair and began scribbling down his ideas.
This was it. This was what he had been waiting for. This was his chance to prove to headquarters that he was somebody. That he could make a difference to the institution. He could buy an entire apartment block. Own every floor. Every member of the organisation would have their own office space, their own work room. He could live in the penthouse. He would never have to travel to work again. He would have the whole top floor to himself. And with a skyline view too. He would never be late for meetings or interviews with his boss. He wouldn’t need a boss. He could be his own boss. He could buy the entire corporation. Every single evil, malevolent, criminal genius would be working for him.
He could not help be cackle to himself. It was a miracle. He could not have planned it better himself if he had created a Lottery Ticket Magnet-inator, drawing the entire country’s lottery tickets into his domain.
His inventions. He could make them all. He could make a Moon-Destructor to blow up the moon through his disliking of cheese; a Pigeon-inator to abolish pigeons because they always poop on his window; a Weather Machine so that it does not rain on his birthday; a Rude-inator which turns infuriating polite people into grumpy rude teenagers, making him appear the politest person in the world; a Duplicator-inator, because you never know when you might need two of something; an Image-Destroying-inator, where whatever image he inputs, it will destroy everything that looks like that image; a Traffic-Warden-Hater-inator that turns traffic warned into ducks, so that he never gets another parking ticket; a machine to transmits his silhouette into the sky at regular intervals so that people think he is the new Batman; an Age-inator, making the whole world appear older than he is; a colony of Robotic Penguins, because everybody loves penguins; an army of giant robots to do his bidding; an army of giant robots to make an army of giant robots.
“And don’t forget, everyone, it’s the spring parade tomorrow,” announced the news reporter on the television, over screams and cheers from a distant crowd. The announcement broke Goof’s concentration. Slamming his hand on his desk, he wished that he had remembered to switch off his set. He made a note to create a News-Presenter-inator, before crossing the room to switch off the television. As he neared the television, the images of people dancing, cheering and shouting flashed before the screen. He gave another groan, rolling his eyes. The parade would be passing outside his apartment.
“A Parade-inator would do nicely,” he mused. Grabbing the remote control, he aimed it at the television set.
“…celebrating the start of the new season,” continued the news reported. “That’s tomorrow, March twenty-first.”
Goof dropped the remote. His mouth parted. He stared at the screen. “No” he whispered. “No, it can’t be.” He shook himself. He ran to his desk. Scrounging the pile of papers that he had swiped on to the floor earlier, he searched for his mobile phone. That would have the correct date. “No!” he cried. “No! No! No!” He knew that he had been working hard and had been under a lot of stress lately, but he could not have got the date wrong date, surely. Grabbing his phone, he pressed the menu button. The screen lit up. ‘March 20’. “No!” he gasped. He darted across the room. Hi picked up his lottery ticket from off the sofa. His hand trembled. He looked down at the lottery ticket and read: ‘Draw date: March 13’.
As the pain in his ribs subsided, he slid his hand down the back of the sofa’s cushioning and rummaged around for the television remote. Patting his hand around, he gave a jerk a few times when placing his hand upon numerous sticky and furry objects. He gave a shudder, certain that something under there moved. Clasping his fingers around the controller he yanked it out, shaking off the remainders of various leftover meals, before turning on his television set. He flicked channels to the news. Nothing would calm his mind more than watching mindless people race around panicking about something that probably was not even going to happen. He admired conspiracists, always managing to create fear in the public eye. He smirked. Soon it would be his creation that they would be fearful of… someday.
He dragged his fingers up is face and through his hair. Hearing the voices of children playing outside, he gave another loud groan. Getting up, he went over to the window and slammed it shut. “Rotten kids,” he mumbled under his breath. ‘Maybe my next invention should be something to eliminate noisy children,’ he mused. That would surely earn him some credit back at headquarters. ‘I will call it the Children Noise-inator-inator…’ he beamed, straightening his back. His brow furrowed. His back returned to his usual slouch. ‘Okay maybe the name needs a little work.’ Shoving his hands into his lab coat pockets, he gazed down out of the window. His eyes fell upon the skip outside, piled up high with his failed and fragmented inventions. He gave a sigh and trudged back to the sofa.
He needed a new idea. Something. Anything. His floor was littered with various balls of paper, all containing random sketches, ideas and designs for new creations. All failures. One was too technical. The other was not technical enough. One lacked originality. Another involved the invention of another invention, which happened to lie in the skip outside. He could have rebuilt it, but he needed more steel casing and he had used the last of it on his giant Shrinkinator, which had also found its way into the skip outside. He could not go and rummage around in the skip for his old inventions or parts either. He did not want the residents of his apartment block to know that they were his or to think that he was using these strange creations. As it was his nemesis that usually destroyed and threw out his inventions, he was certain that the residents of his apartment block were yet to connect these mysterious mechanisms with him. He did not want them to become suspicious of his behaviour – they already thought that he was odd, due to the strange sounds that derive from his apartment and that he was always seen wearing the same clothes: a white lab coat, black t-shirt and grey trousers. He could not buy any new parts for his inventions either. There were only so many internet purchases one could make from a credit card with no income to make any repayments. His occupation may have been Evil Genius, but unless he actually invented an evil contraption to sell to his boss, his money situation would only get worse.
His status was a stake. He had not invented anything decent in a long while. His last brilliant invention was his Invisibility-Ray, but he accidentally turned it invisible during a fight with his nemesis and could not find the controls to make it visible again. All of his other inventions had either failed or being destroyed by his nemeses, before he had had the chance to put them to evil uses. How was he supposed to up his reputation amongst his fellow evil inventors if his arch nemesis always turned up and spoilt his plans?
“Think Goof, think!” He growled at himself, thumping his palm against his forehead. A reason for his unpopularity with his fellow evil inventors and his constant clumsy nature, he put down to his name: Goofy. His mother had named him after her favourite ‘Disney’ character and now he was stuck with a personality to match. He hated her for it. He had longed to be somebody, like a Hank, a Leon or a Tyson… someone strong, someone daring and someone different. But he was stuck being a Goofy.
Just as the pounding of his head was beginning to cause him some serious pain, he froze. Lowering his hand from his head, he stared up at the television. They were announcing the lottery result. He had a lottery ticket brush up in his face earlier that day and had pocketed it, in hope of putting an end to his miserable poverty.
Squeezing his hand into this pocket, he pulled out the ticket. With his elbows on his knees and the tickets held between his thumbs and forefingers, the leant forwards. His eyes widened. He held his breath. His heart hammered against his ribcage. His pulse pounded through is body.
“Four… eleven… seventeen…” the news reader announced.
“Yes… yes… yes…” he whispered. His eyes widened. His eyebrows rose. His brow puckered. His heart drummed louder.
“Twenty-eight…. thirty-seven…”
“Yes… yes…” Sweat tricked from his brow. He edged forward. “Come on…”
“And forty-two.”
He stared at ticket. He held his breath. His vision blurred. His bottom lip trembled. “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes. YES!” he shouted. “I won! I won!” He leapt up off his seat, jumping up and down, his arms swinging above his head. “But this means-” He stopped. His arms fell to his sides. His eyes widened. He jerked his head towards his desk on the opposite side of the room. He ran. Grabbing his notebook and pen in his right hand his slid all of the other table’s contents to the floor (excluding his lamp) with his left arm. Flicking on his desk lamp he skimmed open pages of his notebook, sat at his chair and began scribbling down his ideas.
This was it. This was what he had been waiting for. This was his chance to prove to headquarters that he was somebody. That he could make a difference to the institution. He could buy an entire apartment block. Own every floor. Every member of the organisation would have their own office space, their own work room. He could live in the penthouse. He would never have to travel to work again. He would have the whole top floor to himself. And with a skyline view too. He would never be late for meetings or interviews with his boss. He wouldn’t need a boss. He could be his own boss. He could buy the entire corporation. Every single evil, malevolent, criminal genius would be working for him.
He could not help be cackle to himself. It was a miracle. He could not have planned it better himself if he had created a Lottery Ticket Magnet-inator, drawing the entire country’s lottery tickets into his domain.
His inventions. He could make them all. He could make a Moon-Destructor to blow up the moon through his disliking of cheese; a Pigeon-inator to abolish pigeons because they always poop on his window; a Weather Machine so that it does not rain on his birthday; a Rude-inator which turns infuriating polite people into grumpy rude teenagers, making him appear the politest person in the world; a Duplicator-inator, because you never know when you might need two of something; an Image-Destroying-inator, where whatever image he inputs, it will destroy everything that looks like that image; a Traffic-Warden-Hater-inator that turns traffic warned into ducks, so that he never gets another parking ticket; a machine to transmits his silhouette into the sky at regular intervals so that people think he is the new Batman; an Age-inator, making the whole world appear older than he is; a colony of Robotic Penguins, because everybody loves penguins; an army of giant robots to do his bidding; an army of giant robots to make an army of giant robots.
“And don’t forget, everyone, it’s the spring parade tomorrow,” announced the news reporter on the television, over screams and cheers from a distant crowd. The announcement broke Goof’s concentration. Slamming his hand on his desk, he wished that he had remembered to switch off his set. He made a note to create a News-Presenter-inator, before crossing the room to switch off the television. As he neared the television, the images of people dancing, cheering and shouting flashed before the screen. He gave another groan, rolling his eyes. The parade would be passing outside his apartment.
“A Parade-inator would do nicely,” he mused. Grabbing the remote control, he aimed it at the television set.
“…celebrating the start of the new season,” continued the news reported. “That’s tomorrow, March twenty-first.”
Goof dropped the remote. His mouth parted. He stared at the screen. “No” he whispered. “No, it can’t be.” He shook himself. He ran to his desk. Scrounging the pile of papers that he had swiped on to the floor earlier, he searched for his mobile phone. That would have the correct date. “No!” he cried. “No! No! No!” He knew that he had been working hard and had been under a lot of stress lately, but he could not have got the date wrong date, surely. Grabbing his phone, he pressed the menu button. The screen lit up. ‘March 20’. “No!” he gasped. He darted across the room. Hi picked up his lottery ticket from off the sofa. His hand trembled. He looked down at the lottery ticket and read: ‘Draw date: March 13’.
- Josie -
