Contest: Writer's Playground
Word Count: 3100 max
Character: Lottery Winner
Location: Country Club
Item: Rusty Tricycle
Place: TBD
Dictated to Abigail Cruz
For the autobiography of Joe-Kyle Fletcher
Working title: Fuck You, Hail Ranch
Winning the lottery means everyone you ever loved, fucked, or talked to all of a sudden is your best friend, which is fine and all. I like to have a good time, and I like being around people that like to have a good time. I get that they started turning up out of whatever little shit hole they were in since I would have done the same.
A few years ago, I was riding a rusty-ass tricycle to the Tobacco Outlet after getting fifty bucks for turning in cans. Just doing what I normally did every day—going and getting scratch-offs. Clair was working that day, and she always allowed me to just scratch the barcode right there on the counter. Unlike that bitch-ass Tom.
You should have heard me howl when I won ten grand right there. Only problem was I had to get on a Greyhound the next day to Salem to cash that shit. Abigail, did you know anything over six hundred means your ass needs to go to the goddamn capital? It’s a pain in the ass, but I get it. If I knew that place had ten grand in it, I probably would have robbed it a long time ago.
Take that last bit out, Abigail.
Clair, that angel of a woman, let me borrow twenty bucks so I could go down to Salem and cash that shit. When I came back, I gave Clair five hundred dollars. She only wanted the twenty back, but I was not going to let that happen. Ain’t no one going to say Joe-Kyle does not repay kindness.
Being the businessman I am, I diversified my winnings into some investments. Fifteen hundred into more scratch-offs and a cool eight grand into Powerball. That shit was at a billion-dollar payout, and my chances had to be high if I dropped eight grand into it.
Turns out I was right. The scratch-offs didn’t make me squat, but I won that billion, so I didn’t give a shit. Abigail, did you know you should only expect one out of ten investments to ever make you money?
Anyways, I decided to try to have some rich-person fun. I was gonna join a country club. Only problem was that getting into one is like going to goddamn court and AA all mashed into fucking one. I had to make an application, find three sponsors, take a tour, and fill out paperwork. That’s how we met, Abigail. I needed someone to help me with paperwork. Even after paying that exorbitant application fee, I couldn’t get anyone to sponsor me. Hail Ranch also got pissed that I took my shirt off after an hour of golfing during the tour. The guide had the audacity to look at me like I was crazy. Abigail, you know any man who doesn’t take his shirt off in the sun after six beers?
So I decided to follow the people leaving there. Started finding the ones I could possibly pay to be my sponsor. Turns out all the people that went there lived in communities that we could not get into. So I decided to buy a house in the one that most of them lived in—Sonata Gardens, a really nice place—but they always looked at you driving me around in the Taurus, and I could feel their doors locking. That’s when we got you that new car with the seats that make me feel like I peed my pants.
Still get a kick out of that hood ornament popping out when you turn it on.
Anyways, a lesson I learned was never try to bribe people that play tennis. I got fined by the HOA, and Hail Ranch permanently banned me from ever stepping foot on their property.
There is one thing you should know about me, though. I am a bitter motherfucker. I took that shit personally. I once waited five years to sock someone in the face. It was during the middle of their third divorce. Kicking someone when they are down is the best time to get revenge. However, I was rich now, so I didn’t have to wait. I set out to make my own country club.
I got you, Abigail, to find me who owned the lot next to that shit hole, and I bought it for dollars on the penny. It was not good business. When people asked me if I was all right, I told them I was all left. That was a kooky idea, but I don’t regret it one bit—because fuck Hail Ranch.
I then hired the manager of the Tobacco Outlet. I figured if you were smart enough to put that place smack dab between a liquor store and a BottleDrop Redemption Center, you got to have smarts.
Then I started scheming.
I got a lawyer to help with setting up the business, zoning, and naming. He urged me not to name it Fuck You Hail Ranch because of the ramifications. I politely told him to shut the fuck up and asked if they could sue me for it. He said a bunch of stuff, but by the end, I could not name it that because of laws or some shit. But due to zoning, nothing could prevent me from making a big-ass sign that said “Fuck You” and pointing the whole thing at Hail Ranch. Abigail, didn’t you say that sign takes up half of our electric bill? Worth it.
After getting the sign situated, we actually had to set up the country club. Now, we only had ten acres, so normal golfing was out. Which was fine by me because putting was more fun anyway, and I don’t trust anyone who has grass that nice; it ain’t right. Now, membership came with free beer. Normal beer, too. The nicest beer we had was Miller High Life. I do not care what anyone says; you do not need more than that, and hard alcohol was just going to bring trouble.
With the rest of the land, we added a lazy river and an artificial pond stocked with catfish. You remember when I told the lawyer that the pond was for noodling? That man damn near made sand of his teeth.
Once we had that all situated, we built the clubhouse to look real nice. I wanted to turn that thing into a casino, but the best I could do was get six video poker machines from the Oregon Lottery. We found loopholes, didn’t we, Abigail?
Now, this is where things get super complicated and boring as hell. Needless to say, if there is a legal way to have gambling, we got it. We have Monte Carlo bowling seven times a year and mule racing, just to name a few. Shit, if you want to place bets with other members for how long it takes someone to circle the lazy river, we are gonna turn the other cheek. We ain’t a bunch of fucking Toms.
Abigail, darling, remove that bit. I know that will bite me in the ass. You should actually have the lawyer check all of this, huh?
Anyways, after we opened, we didn’t get the best reception. A lot of people around the area really hated my giant sign and thought the clientele we were going to attract was going to be unsavory. My reply was, “Fuck yeah, we gonna have unsavory folks because we only want the sweet sinners.” I thought that shit was genius, so I made that our slogan.
I also took that old rusty tricycle of mine and made it the centerpiece of the fountain right out front there by my office window. I loved that fucking tricycle. Never got a BUI for the two years I rode that thing. Abigail, did you know you can get a DUI on a bicycle? It’s called a BUI.
Anyways, the Bible thumpers gave us more publicity than I could have asked for. Membership filled up fast, and it didn’t seem to matter what time of day it was; we were full at all hours. We got national attention, and people would even book out the place for weddings. Did I mention one of those gambling loopholes was because we made a religion? No? Well, people came here to get married by our satanic crawdad mascot, Joe-Kyle Jr. That was a good idea, Abigail. I am going to have to give you a raise for that one.
Now, a few weeks after opening, this kid came over looking for a job. I guess he was a dishwasher over at Hail Ranch, and he was worried he wasn’t going to have a job soon. He was telling me all about how members were canceling their membership left and right. Instead of hiring that kid to come work with us, I paid him to stay at Hail Ranch and keep me informed on what was going on there.
What the fuck do you mean, “antitrust laws”? Fine, scratch that shit out, too.
So, as I was saying, Hail Ranch was not doing all that good now. That ivory tower of theirs was looking more like a stack of pancakes at a buffet, and I was hungry. I wanted to make the situation worse for them and more favorable for me, so I decided to double down on the debauchery and add a strip club.
Now, being the businessman I am, I had to advertise we had strippers. What better way of doing that than adding some titties to the giant-ass sign I had pointing at Hail Ranch?
Now, that pain-in-the-ass lawyer said that we could not have exposed nipples. So he tried to get the designers to place a bra on my goddamn sign. Instead, I hired the finest Las Vegas sign maker to add spinning tassels.
Now, Abigail, this is just between you and me because I already know that lawyer’s gonna strike this shit from the record. I had that dishwasher create so many health and safety violations that Hail Ranch didn’t stand a chance. I’m smart enough not to start listing them, but we need to convince the reader it was the titty sign that got them.
Four months later, Hail Ranch went bankrupt. Seeing that property up for sale filled my heart with such joy that I felt like I had won the Powerball all over again. You best believe Joe-Kyle is gonna be there bidding for that place.
My new dream now is to turn my little slice of America into the next Disney World.
Abigail, do we have enough to make a book now? I’m all out of beer.