Story number 3 for the Stop The Press challenge! Make sure to give Stop The Press a look right here on FP. In the meantime, enjoy what happens when you're writing a story when you have enough energy inside you to tear down a brick wall. :hides face with hands: Amazing.

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Fantasy (in a bad way)

I couldn’t help but laugh as I looked at the thick stack of bills. It rested on a pedestal, which I guess is unusual for sullied cash, but this cash was a bit special. It was worth eighty-six times the amount printed upon it. I could see that most—if not all—of it was made up of twenties, Andrew Jackson’s stern face looking out at me. Twenty times eighty-six. Do the math, then multiply that by probably eight hundred or a grand.

Fuck yes.

I lightly tapped the vein of my left wrist, and two wires, each braced by another wire, extended outward from the bottom of my glove. Each had a small metal circle, about the size of a finger pad, at the end, the top one looking down and the bottom one looking up so that they were parallel.

The latter slid neatly beneath the money and the upper one pressed down on the top, holding it securely, then drew it back to me. I eagerly snatched the money from the wires as they drew back into my glove. I could practically feel my eyes drooling.

I began to remove one of the twenty-dollar bills, sliding it from the top like thin ham—

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I jerked my gaze upward as a voice shot out from behind me. A single bill fluttered to the floor, my kitchen floor.

“I knew it!” said my sister triumphantly. “Stealing from mom’s purse…and I caught you with your pants down.”

Ha, ha, I thought bitterly, then felt a breeze. I looked down. My pants were around my ankles.

Oh, God.

So were my boxers.

Not again!

“You know,” she said, picking up the twenty from the floor. The breeze had blow it back to her. “I’d be more surprised if this were the first time.” She looked at the money. “Twenties now? Got a thing for Jackson?”

“I don’t know,” I said. My cheeks burned red hot.

“Good lord, if mom ever has a hundred lying around you’re probably just going to cream your shorts.”

“I think I have a problem,” I said.

“Yeah, no shit.”

My cheeks were still red. My pants were still down. I made no move to pull them up.

“Sis?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna need that twenty back.”