A blood rush to the head, like it’s some kind of cash crack.
I can tell whether it’s a ten dollar one, a twenty dollar one, or a hundred dollar one just by the feel of it, the way the ink speckles of different color spectrums bump harshly down my skin, asperity in the right places, distinctly different in the way of texture.
Count, again.
Twelve tens, four fifties, one one hundred and no five hundreds.
Four hundred and twenty dollars sharp, dot zero zero. Time needed: 0.12 seconds.
Stack two.
I’m a money machine.
The door thumps open as light tears across the threshold.
‘Puck?’ Her figure silhouettes against the yellow tungsten lights, fingers dragging down the flaky paint on the door as it thumps against the wall dully, letting the sound filter up from downstairs.
Martha Thucker’s red pumps clock hollowly against the floor. Her lipstick-red thin lips stretches tightly against her tombstone teeth.
‘Aren’t you hungry?’
‘No.’ The notes slide away too quickly, my mind slips. I swear under my breath.
‘But, I made you carrot cake.’
The notes scrape harder against my fingertips.
‘Aren’t you going to have some?’
‘No, darling, no. Don’t you see I’m busy?’ Martha keels over the stacks, her hair hanging blocking my sight in the dark. I can feel the chemicals and cheap perfume starting to clog up my trachea.
‘Man, aren’t we rich. Can I see the money?’
One ten, three fifties, six five hundreds –
‘Your fingers,’ (raw pink paper cut shredded skin) Martha gasps, ‘what the hell did you do with them?’ (slashgashscratchrip)
‘God,’ I say, ‘Will you just shut up?’
Her hand lunges downwards, manicured claw clamoring for the five hundreds.
‘C’mon,’ she whines, now, ‘just let me see … oh crap – ‘
The stack topples, brick heavy slabs of cash cascading down –
‘I told you not to interfere, you stupid little beehive – ‘
Well at least I died rich.
