The Lottery Ticket

Bob is standing behind the counter of some sketchy mini-market looking bored and frustrated as usual. He's been working the counter for almost ten year now. Dropped out of college, said he wanted to be a rock star. What a dream... wait no, what an original dream! It all sounds so cliché. the frustrated rock star working the counter of some Korean mini- market. After so many years he still thinks he'll be a rock star some day. Ladies and gentlemen, that's what I call faith.

It is a silent night, like they usually are on Mondays. Who am I kidding, nobody goes to this store therefore every freaking night is a silent night. Tonight he had the usual costumers: the alcoholic, the neurotic old woman who buys aspirins every week, and the stoned hippies looking for munchies.

It is about four, maybe five in the morning and a guy came running into the store. He looks like a corporate type guy after a crazy night on the town; uncombed hair loosened up tie, unbuttoned shirt and broken glasses. The man barely makes it to the counter. Bob is watching TV completely ignoring the frantic corporate type guy. The man reaches into his pocked and pulls out everything he has. It looks like a piñata's exploding and crumpled bunches of money are flying all over the place. The money finally caught Bob's attention. The man strongly grips the money and then in a burst of force throws some of the money on the counter.

"Give me a lottery ticket," the crazy guy tells Bob.

"Random numbers?" asks Bob.

"Fuck!" screams the man as he searches his pockets throwing bunch after bunch of crumpled money. Bob just stares at him blankly. A cell-phone starts to ring and the man picks it up. He was holding a small piece of paper. He takes a look at it and starts screaming out numbers. "It's 7, 14, 15, 19, and - WAIT A SECOND - twenty five - I'M DOING IT NOW." Bob could hear the first four numbers but had a difficult time hearing the last one.

"What was the last number?" Bob asks.

"It was fucking twenty. WHAT - No please I'm going to get the freaking money you'll see. I'm doing what you told me to do - TWENTY FIVE, MORON, ARE YOU DEFT?" screamed the man as he throws his cell-phone to the ground breaking it in half.

"TWENTY. right. Whatever," Bob says as he punched the number twenty on the lottery machine. He gives him the ticket, takes some of the money from the counter and continues watching TV. The man quickly takes the ticket and runs out. Bob takes a look at the floor and counter and there's money all over. "Time to clean up," he says as he picked up more money from the counter.

That incident was the highlight of the day. Almost twelve hours pass and he's still working behind the counter counting the money he had swept from the floor. The guy from the next shift is late as usual. The owner of the mini-market, an old Korean fellow who happens to live next to the store, pops in from the back. He was mad as hell because the guy from the next shift, a wannabe punk, decided he was going on a spiritual quest to Utah after seeing an episode of a popular cartoon show in which a Mormon kid moves into the neighborhood. The boss, Mr. Jones - who probably changed his name when he moved to America - is begging Bob to stay for a couple of hours.

Mr. Jones goes back to his house and Bob continues his tough work of watching TV behind a counter. He keeps flipping channels, in one of the local channels the lottery drawing is been aired. He notices the numbers are almost identical to the ones of the corporate type guy that was in such a hurry to buy his ticket this morning.. He's also thinking that the chick that's announcing the numbers is hot. For a second there he senses something might be wrong, but then he simply farts and says "yeah, that was it." At that very moment a costumer enters the store. This guy is probably seven feet tall, a real mammoth. He looks like a bouncer for a very classy club. Bob seems a bit worried for a second but then simply ignores it and returns to his normal duty.

Minutes later another mean looking six feet tall guy arrives. This guy is holding Mark - the corporate type guy who bought a lottery ticket earlier - by the back of his shirt. It looks like they seriously kicked his ass. Bob takes a glance and tries to ignore it. Both of the gorilla-looking men start pushing Mark around trying to get him to reach the counter. Bob takes a bit of an interest after they start trashing the place as they pushed Mark around.

"Hey what are you doing?" screams Bob. Shortly after that Mark falls face first into the lower part of a canned soup display. He quickly stands up and starts to laugh maniacally.

"FUCK, HA, ha, HA, that's the fucking deuce bag that messed up the ticket. That's the guy that messed it all up. I fucking came here and bought the fucking ticket like your fucking boss told me to and he fucked up," shortly after that he spits blood and sits on the floor.

By now Bob realizes that both these mongoloids want to make him suffer just like Mark. So he ran to the back room and locka the door. When he notices Mr. Jones tied up on a pipe he say, "I'm screwed." From behind some boxes a man with a bat comes out looking like he wants to beat Sosa's home run records with Bob's face and not knowing what to do, Bob runs in an attempt to reach the back door. As he opens the back door a thin man in a suit pistol whips him unconscious.

He wakes up with a headache that could only be compared to a hangover from a bottle of 151 proof rum. Bob is tied up to a pipe and from there he sees the two mongoloids playing cards in an improvised table made out of an old wooden box. In a matter of minutes a fat balding man enters the old abandoned warehouse. The two big mammoths call him Carmelo. Mark was completely unconscious next to Bob and the fat balding man is walking straight to Bob. Carmelo gets really close to Bob; his breath smells really bad, like a mix of garlic and rotten eggs. The poor clerk has no idea what to do. He feels like telling this guy to take a breath mint but after some quick consultation with his brain he opts to keep quiet. You don't want to piss off a mobster look-alike, he said to himself.

"Do you know what you just did kid?" Mr. Garlic breath asks Bob.

"DUDE, I have no idea what's going on. The only time I saw this guy was when he stormed into the store to buy a lottery ticket," Bob says.

"Ha, I can't really believe you are that stupid but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. I'll give you a chance to rectify your mistake." Carmelo says as he looks directly at Mark. "You on the other hand have a problem," shortly after that he signals his two bodyguards who quickly snatch Mark and drag him to another room.

"HEY, I'm your man. Whatever I have to do, I'll DO IT. Will I get any money?" asks Bob nervously and on an extremely fast tone.

"No," Carmelo answers.

"Well that's ok, that's cool; no money it's ok. I don't even like money; who needs money, right fellows?" Bob says as he looks around for a reaction.

"Shut up and listen. You have three hours to get to the next state and buy a ticket for that state's lottery. You're going to play the following number," said Carmelo as he gives him a small piece of paper. "Go west on the interstate and get off on the first exit after the state line. There will be a mini-mart next to a burger place. I recommend you buy the ticket there. It's the closest place otherwise you won't make it in time."

"How am I going to get there, I don't have car," Bob says as the two guards untie him.

"Kid, I suggest you grow some wheels because the clock is ticking." Carmelo says as he turns around and exits the room through the back door.

The two goons stare blankly at Bob. It takes him a couple of seconds to understand what he has to do, but once everything kicks in he stormed out of the building without even noticing the two mongoloids were following him. He tries to find his cell phone that's buried somewhere in his cargo pants. After several minutes he finds it and tries to call his brother Zack. Of all the people he could call, Zack was the last person he should be calling. He's a small time drug dealer with a passion for anime. Zack never had a legitimate job, yet for a couple of years he actually managed to go to college but was kicked out for selling drugs on campus.

"Zack! Zack!" Bob screams.

"Chill man, what is it?" Zack replies.

"I need your car!"

"My car?"

"Yes! Where are you now?"

"Are you sure you want to use my crappy car?" Zack replies.

"YES! Just tell me where you are?" Bob screams as he runs to the bus stop in the nearby industrial complex.

"What is it that you wanted?" Zack replies as he scratches his head.

"For God's sake Zack, this is important, I need your car! Are you home?" Bob quickly got out on the first stop and hails a cab.

"Yeah, I think." Zack says. Bob quickly hangs up before Zack could even finish his sentence.

The cab driver looks at Bob through the rearview mirror and asks him where he's going. .

"How far will twenty bucks get me?" the desperate clerk asks the cabdriver. "I want to go to 59 Main Street? Will a twenty be enough?"

"Yes, yes, sure," said the cabdriver in a calm and loud Easter European accent.

The cabdriver could perceive the desperation in his passenger. The incessant sweating, the tapping of the finger in the plastic part of the door, the nervous legs, and the constant moving back and forth were only a few of the noticeable characteristics of a man desperately in a hurry. It is a particularly busy day and most of the streets are congested. The cab driver suggest an alternative route that is a bit out of the way but will take way less time than attempting to go through the heavy traffic. Bob naturally accepts and the cabdriver smiles knowing in his mind that the fare will be twice as much.

They finally arrive to Zack's house in 59 Main Street. Carl is waiting in the front door. Carl was a tall black man with dreadlocks. Bob gets out and pays the cabdriver, but from the inside the cabdriver screams something at Bob.

"Hey, I thought you said twenty dollars!"

"Well your meter said only fifteen," Bob screams back at the cabdriver.

In a matter of seconds the guy gets out of the car. He's a six foot tall buff Easter European man. Carl starts to panic and quickly gets in the house.

"OK, you win, here twenty bucks," Bob says looking like a scared puppy. The man quickly takes the five bucks and then punches Bob in the face. The poor clerk is now on the floor with a bloody nose and only two hours to get to his destination. Carl comes out as soon as the cabdriver left.

"Are you ok man, you know I was going to let him have it, but, you know, he left quickly." Carl says attempting to imitate a tough man's voice.

"Sure, whatever, where's Zack?" Bob asks as he cleans up his face of the blood.

Bob quickly walks into the shack Zack calls home. The place is a rundown cement house. The roof is flat with the foundations of an incomplete second floor clearly visible. Some cement bags and a little pile of sand that looks more like dirt grace the front patio. Inside isn't any better. Everything seems under construction. Even one of the chairs in the living room has a leg missing; a couple of volumes of a bad encyclopedia keep the chair still up.

The car keys are in the usual spot next to the fridge. Bob grabs the keys without even looking for Zack. He storms out and Carl moves out of the way without saying a word. The car is an old beat up pastel green Colt. One of the tail lights is busted and the wipers only go half way. Bob never drove anywhere, mainly because he is lazy, but he tells people he's boycotting cars because they pollute the environment. What a combination a wannabe rockstar mixed with hippiesh tendencies.

Finally Zack decides to get out of the house. The sun blinds him a bit and he catches Bob taking his car. All he says is "Dude, that's my car." Carl starts to laugh and says "Dude, there's your car," and as Bob drove off into the distance Carl says as he laughs hysterically, "Dude, there goes your car." All Zack could says is "bummer, wanna watch cartoons?" After a couple of seconds of contemplating what he just did Bob stops worrying, mainly because he knows his brother would kill time watching cartoons, getting high and playing video games. Odds are he won't even know who took the car and they'll use Carl's car to make their daily munchies run to the mini-mart.

Bob is now blazing through the intestate. It was an extremely hot day and the car had no air-conditioning. Despite the crappiness of the car he still managed to reach the end of the speedometer, almost 100 miles per hour. After about an hour of speeding he passes a cop car sitting by the side of the road.

"License and registration please," the officer says in the usual tone of voice he addresses all the cases of speeding, he says on his mind "Intimidation is the key." Bob is sweating, with a bloody nose, and is just about to faint. The unlucky clerk reaches for his pockets to find his license and realizes the cabdriver must have snatched the whole wallet when he grabbed the money. In what could perhaps be the only lucky thing that has happened to Bob so far, two speeding cars loose control and crash into the police car. The cop car is unusually far away from Bob's car. Bob could see the car rushing towards the back of the indispensable piece of crap car he's driving. He quickly steps on the gas pedal and rushes away from the cop and the wreckage.

He's a couple of miles away from his destination and all he could think of is the cop. His cell phone rings and Carmelo was calling him.

"How far are you my friend?" Carmelo asks. Bob had a hard time understanding him because the signal was fading.

"I'm getting there, don't worry, I'm your man. You will have your winning lottery ticket in no time," said Bob as he swerves left and right in the interstate highway.

He hangs up and Bob sees the first exit after the state line. He could see the mini-mart next to the burger place from the interstate. He's sweating like crazy and his whole face hurts because of the punch from the cabdriver. The name of the clerk was Muhammad; at least that's what the tag in his shirt says. He has a turban and is not particularly happy about working in a mini-mart. He's watching the news channel on TV and Bob storms into the store like a mad man. He's sweating, with a bleeding nose, shaking and smelling like old rags. He digs into his pockets trying to find the piece of paper with the lottery ticket. He basically throws everything in his pocket on the floor. Muhammad looks at Bob from the corner of his eyes wondering what this crazy white guy wants.

"I want a lottery ticket, for today's drawing," said Bob as he stumbled with a snack display.

"Random numbers?" the clerk asks with a thick Middle Eastern accent.

"No, here are the numbers." said Bob as he hands him the small piece of paper with the numbers. The clerk takes a hard look at the numbers and tells him he has too many numbers.

"Wait, no, that can't be. Are you sure? Shit, what to do, crap, ok let me tell you something if you mess this up you're gonna be in as much trouble as me. So you punch all those numbers and make sure you give me the right numbers because I was in your situation and now I'm here almost about to have a heart attack." Bob says as he furiously takes a little pamphlet for the state lottery and starts to read it.

Meanwhile back in the mini-mart Bob works, Mark and the two mongoloids were messing with the lottery machine. One of the mammoths is writing down the numbers of today's lottery drawing which is airing at the moment. After it is done the mammoth gives the piece of paper to Mark. In a matter of seconds a lottery ticket comes out with the winning numbers and with yesterdays date. "Instant winner." Mark says.

For a second there Bob had a revelation, that maybe it was all a setup. Muhammad took out the last number and gave him a lottery ticket with a smile and then simply said "good luck." Bob stood there contemplating the whole situation. Like an idiot that just figured out he's stupid, Bob understands at least one part of the plan; that it doesn't matter if he gets the ticket, he was just a distraction. Before he could even contemplate what to do Bob suddenly realizes he left the mini-mart alone and Mr. Jones all tied up.

The cops interviewed Bob but they filed the incident under who-gives- a-crap-nothing-was-stolen and left it to rot on the endless reports and files of our cities finest. Mr. Jones, well he was very happy nothing was stolen, but in a burst of benevolence he gave Bob the mini-mart. Bob never saw Mr. Jones again; the rumor on the street is that he's now a millionaire living in some nice tropical island.

The winning lottery ticket came from Bob's mini-mart; it was a 200 millions dollar prize. Apparently an old fat guy won the price. The funny thing is Bob didn't remember selling a lottery ticket to any fat guy, for a second there he thought something was wrong, but then he figured he was probably stoned that day and forgot.

Days after everything happened Bob was watching the news, because he was too lazy to change the channel, and sees Muhammad the clerk from that other store. Bob takes a closer look to make sure it's him. Muhammad was all beaten up with a lottery ticket in his hand. "An unidentified middle eastern man has taken hostage a crowd and is frantically asking for money to pay a debt. So far he seems to have no ties to Al Qaida," says the woman newscaster.

The End.