Mr. Money

As I slowly cruised in my Ferrari through the streets of Lekki, I could see, from the side mirror, the crowd of youths and children closely escorting the car and screaming my name in ecstasy and in a state of frenzy. They called me ‘Milo’, short for ‘Millionnaire’. I could see mothers waving frantically and fathers with smiles on their faces. I recalled how I had knelt down before the old woman whose hospital bills I had helped pay the previous day, how her warm tears fell on my face as she fervently prayed for me in sincere gratitude. But then, I remained unruffled by emotions whatsoever. My eyes remained focused on the road. I have steeled my heart against such things a long time ago.

I am a multi-millionnaire. The millions of cash spent on the acquisition of my Ferrari does not shake even a strand of my hair. The community into which I have just moved rejoices. My praises are on the lips of everybody. Life promises a sustained sweetness as long as Milo remains standby.

I smiled.

After thirty-three long years of the most horrible kind of wretchedness; after thirty-three long years of humiliation and immense suffering, I am finally a Lord over the notes, and my riches are inexhaustible.

I looked at the children screaming ‘Milo ‘at the top of their voices. Money means the world, think they. But who wouldn’t? Is not it the truth? Well, maybe, and maybe not. At least I know what my answer is.

I smiled wryly, and glanced at my wristwatch, it was 5:30pm. It was almost time. I sped away.

It was fifteen minutes before the clock struck six when I arrived at my mansion. I alighted and quickly headed for that room, for that room is my life. In no time I was there, and there it lay, the corpse of a lady, a rottened corpse full of fat maggots all over, fat maggots swimming in the pus from its rottenness, with the foulest smell. I squinted and twitched my face as goose bumps overwhelmed all parts of my body. But then, this is my money. With a long deep breath, I courageously stripped, and mounted the carcass of Joyce, my sweetheart, tears uncontrollably racing down my cheeks as I passionately romanced this ‘Beautiful and Sexy’ rottenness, kissing what was left of her lips, sucking what was left of her rottened breasts, and finally sexing her.

After all, money means the world. Doesn’t it?

No thoughts yet on “Mr. Money” by Ezeama Chijioke Desmond (@Chijy)

Leave a Reply