Running away with all the money

This one came from me thinking about all the big bosses of the charities who seem to be there only to make money, and some of them take the money...

All the money had run away with a tall dark man in a new suit that couldn’t hide his Popeye muscled mind that he tried so hard to hide yet bulged from every crevice, nook and cranny. He was a symptom and deserved sympathy but all the other symptoms were too hot for his blood to empathise anything he could deal with, except one, who gave him lawless kisses, but he had decided to leave her behind too.

Money can buy anything if you know how to spend it right; he was real hot right for spending it, all the suitcase full of it.

And it had been so easy, they had all taken him for one of themselves, and he had been, until a stray thought had showed him his wildest dream, and then he had been filled with it and found he couldn’t put it away again. He’d done his best: for weeks he had tried to deny it, to go back to how he’d been before he could see what he could have with the money in the charity account.

They’d actually given it to him carte blanche to write his own ticket with the smile he’d learnt in the same schools as them: the good people who worked so hard to fill themselves with good, and good they did and good they were and good was all they knew. (Until the man from Kerrystan stole all their bloody stew.)

Yes, he’d had a good education and his upbringing was without a blemish. From a fine old family he’d inherited his pedigree down to the last grace and heir, but the day the stray thought came along he became a changed man; on the outside even his dog couldn’t tell the difference, but on the inside all hell had broken loose. While his conscious mind played the game, the dare grew huge, and nearer. There had only been one visible sign that could have betrayed him and then only to someone who knew him well: whenever money rustled or chinked a muscle near his left eye would spasm; it was really bad around noisy tills; but everyone took his tick for over-work and so they encouraged him to go for a holiday. ‘Get away,’ they had said. ‘Go somewhere remote and escape for a while.’

So, they had given him the money, and told him to go. They had all been so encouraging and he loved them all, and wished them all the very best. Joanne, his personal secretary who’d bring him the morning coffee and a paper with the day’s news; the way she’d sit prim and proper with crossed legs and a smile when his eyes would wander past her note pad; how her blonde hair would glow when the sun streamed through the office window.

And Sam, the mail boy with his big grin and his stammer: ‘M, m, morning Mr C, C, Collard, h, h, here’s your mail.’ The butt of so many jokes; accepted warmly for he was simple Sam the mail man, and he had a heart as large as his smile.

And Lorna, lovely Lorna, the go-getter, who organised the intaglio of beauty in the typing pool; the most gorgeous thing on two legs; and what legs, voluptuous like a model’s, and impeccably dressed yet showing off every curve and softness of her sexy attractive body. Her brunette hair would wave out when she turned her head suddenly and her impish little nose and turned up smile would melt him to butter every time. She was so wild, his best catch ever; her kisses always left him feeling like a rebel.

They all loved him, and he loved them, and missed them all this three thousand miles away.

“Can I help you sir?” said the air stewardess.

“What?” blurted out the tall dark man from his reminiscences.

“We’ll be landing soon, it’s time to fasten seat belts,” she said.

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed that the sign had come on, thanks, but I can manage,” he said and clicked the seat belt together.

The stewardess walked on down the aisle checking the other passengers.

Lorna was staring out over the city from her lover’s deserted office.

“Bastard!” she said. “Why did he leave me behind? I thought he loved me. I gave him everything and he repays me with, hell, not even a goodbye. God! Nine hundred thousand pounds. He could have anything he wants, a whole new life. He’ll probably buy a beautiful house by the ocean somewhere and fall in love with some rich bitch or tropical beauty who’ll do anything he asks. He’ll have all he wants now. It’s not fair.

In the city, far below from where Lorna stands watching, cars bumper to bumper pour out their poison and disharmony, and on the wide pavement hurrying feet carry their daily burdens along the grinding toil of strife for another day’s gain or loss that makes no difference under the wide, open sky. Drills clamour from ear-muffed shakers; directions are given haphazardly by little who could care as noise initiates and perpetuates more noise unconducive to peace and tranquillity; while those that plan just make more plans and the rest just do or wish. The occasional breakdown is proceeded by an overwhelming rush of existentialism before being carried away.

A tear grows and then runs its wet path down Lorna’s face.

After the plane lands, the tall dark man steps into the sun and is immediately furnaced by the heat of the sun after the air conditioning. He swelters in his new suit which soon becomes sweat stained. His tears are quickly dried by the hot sun. No-one notices his tears, their own preoccupy their time. Strangely, the plane is filled by tall, dark men, carrying cases, and all of them hurrying to the nearest phone.

Image from Pixabay