Georgia stepped off the boat and looked around at her surroundings. Other than the pier where the boat, a yacht really, had moored no building marred the white sandy beach in either direction. She could see a much smaller boat off shore on her right, but there was no other sign of life. She followed her luggage which was being efficiently wheeled off the dock by a man in a white uniform. The cart that held her bags and some other boxes and crates hummed along a path until it reached a road. She couldn't see anything in either direction, but the road curved so sharply that she didn't think she could see more than fifty meters anyway.

"The bus is late," the man said as he looked at his watch. "It is always late."

Georgia settled herself for a long wait, but within minutes the bus arrived. It was essentially a larger version of the platform that already held her luggage and the other cargo. The only difference was that a pair of park benches were bolted to the platform and a canvas shelter shaded them. The driver stood at a tiny platform at the front and manoeuvred with a joystick.

"Hurry," the driver said, "I'm late."

"I know," the first man said.

"I think the moisture is bad for this watch."

"Mine has no problem. Speak to the Gov'ner"

"If I must," the driver said rolling his eyes.

"It's better than being late."

They had loaded the platform while they talked and the driver waved Georgia to take a seat. She had barely sat down before the bus took off at high speed.

"How does it run?" she asked.

"Electric," the driver said, "Everything on this crazy island is electric. Run by power from the solar panels on the other side of the mountain."

There was tall man in a black suit waiting for them. She saw him looking at his watch.

"Not too bad," the man said.

The driver unloaded Georgia's luggage and drove away with the rest of the cargo.

"Follow me, miss." The man in the suit picked up one of Georgia's bags and she pulled the handle out on the other one and followed after. They only went a few meters off the road before she saw yet another platform. They put the luggage on the platform and walked along the path.

"You may call me Jeeves," the man in the suit said.

"Is that your name?"

"No, but nonetheless, you will address me as Jeeves."

"OK, Jeeves, I'm Georgia."

"You had on your application that your name was Geo. Spence."

"That's right," she said, "Georgia Spence. It's illegal to discriminate against someone by their gender in Canada."

"You may have noticed, Georgia, that we are not in Canada."

"From what I've seen, it looks a lot nicer."

"You may wish to keep that in mind in days to come, miss."

They had rounded a bend and Georgia saw a huge grey manor house. The only concession to the tropical climate was the slightly oversized windows. Jeeves led them around to the back of the house and stopped in front of a small door.

"This is the servant's entrance. Unless accompanied by the Governor, you will always use this door to enter or exit the manor."

"He's paying the bills," Georgia said.

"A wise observation," Jeeves replied. He opened the door and once again picked up the larger piece of luggage. "Please carry your bag. The floors mark easily."

Georgia picked up her bag and followed Jeeves into the house. He led her to an elevator and pushed the button for the third floor.

"You may go anywhere on the main level or on the third floor, providing it is not the private rooms of other staff. The second floor is reserved for the Governor. You will be required to access it for your duties, but you are not to wander. The top floor is also restricted, but for safety rather than privacy purposes."

"Yes, Jeeves," Georgia said while wondering just what kind of situation she had landed herself in.

They left the elevator and Jeeves took her to a room just to the right. He pushed the door open and carried her bag in.

"This is your room. You may decorate the interior in any manner you please. If you need materials, just talk to me. You may not make any alteration to the exterior of the door. Here is your key. I suggest that you keep your room locked while you are not in occupancy. Some of the other staff have a regrettable urge to curiousity. There are several appropriate suits in the wardrobe. You may make minor alterations, or if you don't sew, I will introduce you to one of the maids who can do the work for you."

Georgia looked in the wardrobe.

"They're all the same."

"The Governor likes to know what a person's work is by the clothes that they wear. You may wear whatever you wish while you are not on duty. When you are at work you will wear one of these suits or a suitable replacement that you have properly requisitioned. The Governor was a civil servant who came into an extremely large fortune. He set up this island to work exactly the way that he always thought Britain should run. Unfortunately when everything is perfect, he is bored.

"OK, then," Georgia said, "When do I meet the Governor?"

Jeeves looked at his watch.

"It is too late to meet him tonight. Be awake at eight for breakfast and be ready to start work at nine. There is a watch on the night stand. I suggest you get used to wearing it."

Georgia tried on several suits until she found one that she though fit well enough. She had just decided that keeping her blond hair back in a tight pony tail was not only cooler but looked efficient with the suit, when there was a knock on the door. She opened it to see a woman about her age carrying a tray with a plate of food.

"Evening, miss. Jeeves realized that he didn't ask if you were hungry." She set the tray on the table. "If you don't mind me saying, I could make a few darts in that jacket and fit it better for you. Same with the pants."

"That would be great. I'm afraid that I am a much better secretary than seamstress."

"No problem," the woman smiled, "Call me Jane."

"Georgia." She looked at the tray and her stomach rumbled.

"Sit eat. You don't work until tomorrow."

Next morning Georgia's alarm woke her at seven and she had a quick shower in the bathroom she found down the hall. By eight she had followed Jane and some others to the servant's mess for breakfast. At nine she was dressed in her suit and stepping off the elevator onto the second floor.

"Good morning, George." The Governor was a large man with thinning hair. He wore a white suit.

"Good morning, sir," Georgia said.

"By gads," the Governor said, "You're a woman."

"Yes sir."

"I thought I was hiring George Spence."

"You did," Georgia said, "I am she. If it will make you more comfortable, you can call me George."

"Right then, George, take a letter."

Georgia whipped out her pad and paper.

"Dear Sir," the Governor said, "It has come to my attention that you are not paying your share of the taxes needed to run this island. While the light of the sun is free, the solar panels to collect the power are most certainly not. If you wish to remain a resident of this island you will remit the appropriate percentage of your income immediately accompanied by the correct forms. Failure to do so will result in the most severe legal action. Signed John Hampton Smith, Governor"

He looked around at her.

"Did you get all that?"

Georgia read him back his letter and he smiled.

"Capital, just capital. Let's see that blackguard ignore that!" He rubbed his hands together. "Your desk is over there. You can type it up and I will mail it immediately."

The after lunch Jeeves brought in the mail. He tore into the letters and made quick replies to most of them. The last one in the pile he read, then thrust at her.

"Look at this!" he said to her, "Just look at this. The nerve of the man."

Georgia read the very letter that she had typed this morning. This is getting very strange, she thought, but he doesn't look dangerous. In fact, he is looking a little wistful.

"Well, sir," she said, "You must reply by return post." She was rewarded by a broad grin, then the Governor started dictating a scorching reply.

“Hey, you'll never guess who won that huge jackpot last night!” my wife said as I came out of the study for lunch.

“Haven't the foggiest, tell me,” I said, between munching on a sandwich and drinking a coke.

“You uncle Sid.”

I sprayed my plate with the coke I hadn't quite managed to swallow, and gagged a bit on the sandwich I was trying to wash down with it. After I finished choking, and Sally stopped pounding my back, I took a gulp of badly needed air.

“You don't mean crazy uncle Sid won half a billion dollars do you?”

“One and the same, yep. What do you think he is going to do with it?”

My uncle was an inventor, and not a particularly successful one. He eked out a living selling some of his less-weird creations, but just barely. His biggest dream was to create an above ground system of transport, that would be radar controlled, have solar collectors along the sides to generate power, and be completely enclosed to the elements. Large fans would provide ventilation, and he envisioned electric cars running at one hundred or so miles an hour through it. It was a nifty idea. The problem was it cost about a million dollars an inch to build.

“Well, he can build almost 50 feet of his elevated roadway with it. That would take him from his front door to just about his mailbox.”

“Well that hardly seems to be a practical way to spend it,” Sally observed.

“Nobody ever accused uncle Sid of being practical,” I pointed out. “I still probably ought to pay him a visit though. I am curious what he does intend to do with it.”

After lunch, I took the car over to Sid's house. Apparently others had the same idea, the place was a mob scene. I waited until the police showed up, and moved most of them out. One came up to my car, Sgt Smith it was.

“Morning Ronald, Sid says he is not interested in any more visitors today.”

“Well looking at the crowd that was here, I can understand that. Could you tell him I am here, and would like some time to talk to him?”

“I'll give it a try.”

Smith entered the house, and came out a short time later. “He said to go ahead in.”

“Thanks Sargent.”

I made my way into the house. Uncle Sid was in his lab puttering, and not looking the least bit happy for a guy who just became a multimillionaire.

“Crowd giving you a problem Sid?'

“You don't know the half of it Ronald. They either claim to be long lost relatives, or want me to finance a business scheme of theirs, or just asking for a handout.”

“Figures. One of the problems with winning. I assume you have your own pet project you're going to finance. Tell me about it.”

Sid raced excitedly to the whiteboard. “Ronald, I have finished the mathematical model. It all works out, and I am ordering in the equipment to build it. It is the greatest thing mankind has ever heard of.”

I was getting excited too. I had been the one handling Uncle Sid's patents, and I made some good money of it myself. “So what is the device?”

“The world's first perpetual motion machine.”

Well, that didn't sound like I was going to make a killing off the rights. “Um, Sid, you do know you can't get a patent without a working model?

“Oh yes, I realize that. It is why I never worked on it before. It is going to require a lot of capital investment to build a working prototype.”

“And how are you getting around the laws of thermodynamics?”

“Physicists are discovering new things all the time Ronald. Remember, those aren't laws, those are theories at the root of them.”

“Theories with at great deal of experimental data behind them. You believe you have found a way around them though?”

“I am quite sure.”

“Well I will stay in touch. Call me if you make any serious progress on it will you?”

The next several weeks had a steady stream of deliveries going to Uncle Sid's house. Such events did not go unnoticed, and the next thing I knew, Harold, a reporter for our local paper, was on my doorstep.

“What's going on with Professor Gizmo?” Harold asked. “I tried asking him myself, and I got a stream of words I didn't understand.

“Uncle Sid is working on an alternative form of energy,” I said euphemistically.

“Uh, yeah, which means what?”

“Let's go up there and find out.”

The place was quite a bit more cluttered then I had ever seen it. Although it was not surprising given the number of deliveries Sid had recently. There was what looked like a small car, and another object that appeared to be a large flying egg, of course it was on the ground not flying. Sid was working on another strange looking device.

“What is all this stuff Sid?” Howard asked.

“Well, that's a car that runs on broadcast power, and that is a plane that uses an anti-gravity field.”

“Do you have any of that stuff invented?” Howard asked.

“It all is waiting on this,” Sid replied prowdly.

“Which is?”

“The world's first perpetual motion machine.”

Howard stood there, stunned. “Uh, yeah, well I think I have my story, thanks.”

I could see the headline already 'Professor Gizmo goes off the Deep End'. I sighed.

“Uncle Sid, how is that machine coming?”

“Really well. I should have it operational by the end of the week.”

“Great news, call me when you do.”

The end of the week came and went with no phone call. I decided it was time to pay Uncle Sid another visit. When I got there, the car was whizzing around the house, and the egg was flying. Excitedly I went in. Sid sat by his perpetual motion machine looking dejected.

“I failed Ronald, and I spent all my money doing it,” he cried.

“So what is the stuff outside running on”

“Oh, broadcast power from this device.”

“I don't understand then. What failed.”

“I missed a variable. The laws of Thermodynamics still hold. This isn't a perpetual motion machine.”

“Honestly Sid, I didn't think it would be. It seems to be a good source of power though. What is it's output? “

“Around 100 Gigawatts.”

It was a good thing I didn't have a mouthful of Coke at the time.

“Uh, Sid, isn't that about the same power as all the nuclear plants in the US combined?”

“Why yes, now that you mention it, I think it is. But you need that much for broadcast power.”

“Speaking of which, what is the range of that?”

“Only two hundred miles.”

“Only...OK, any dangers with the thing?”

“No, if you take it apart, it just stops working. It doesn't explode or give off radiation or anything like that.”

“I see. Does it need refueling?”

“No, it is impossible to refuel.”

“How long does it last since it is not perpetual.”

“Around one hundred years. You see, I inverted a variable in the 105th equation and...”

“Alright, it produces broadcast electricity on a massive scale, has a range of two hundred miles, no wiring needed, no maintenance, no dangers, and it operates for one hundred years... what does it cost to build?”

“Well my prototype ran about one hundred and fifty million...”

“A little pricey but...”

“The production model would cost around five hundred thousand to build.”

“Half a million?”

“Yes, entirely out of the question. Now if it had been perpetual motion I could see it, but with this?” Sid shook his head.

“Sid, here's what I want you to do. Leave me all the notes, the prototypes, and any write-ups you have ready for the patent office.”

“But it isn't a perpetual...”

“Yeah Sid, we're going to have to make do. Now once you have done all that, lock the doors to the place, and take yourself a long vacation. You have earned it. I will take care of everything else.”

“Er, Ronald, do you have about ten grand you can spare, I sort of ran out of cash.”

“Not a problem Uncle Sid, not a problem.”

I skipped all the way home.

I live in a nice, middle class neighborhood in a nice, middle class house. I pay my bills, I buy a new car every now and then, and I save a little money out of each paycheck for a rainy day. I take care of my home, and I take pride in how it looks.

My neighbors are just like me; those that aren’t retired are dedicated, friendly folk who work for a living, and keep their homes in decent shape.

All of my neighbors, that is, except for one.

George lives right down the street from me, on the other side of the road; far enough away that I don’t have to speak to him very often, but close enough that I can see his house, and the yard that surrounds it.

Let me say this about George ”“ he also works for a living. At least, his pickup truck leaves every morning and it comes back every evening. George also works on his house or in his yard virtually every weekend, just like the rest of us. The problem is that George has absolutely no sense when it comes to style and taste. I know, you probably think I’m being self-righteous and opinionated, but I’m not.

I’ll give you a few examples of what I’m talking about: everyone in the neighborhood plants flowers each spring; everyone including George. My immediate neighbors have a very nice flower bed constructed of timbers, with shrubbery and brightly colored flowers. I have a stone planter, and every spring my girlfriend plants some sort of white flowers that fill up the entire bed. George also plants some very beautiful flowers … the problem is that he plants them in a commode, which is sitting in his front yard. A commode, mind you, complete with tank, lid and seat. I’ve often wondered what would happen if George’s wife was in their bathroom and George just had to go.

I don’t have a fence in my yard, but a few of my neighbors do. The typical split rail variety seems to be the norm in my neighborhood. The norm, that is, except for George.

George has a fence of sorts. He has a partition which divides his property from that of his neighbor directly to his left. But it’s not a split rail fence, nor even a stone wall.

I think it’s a 1956 Ford F-100 pickup truck. It could be a ’57.

At one time it was bright red, but now it’s difficult to tell where the paint ends and the rust begins. And it’s sat perfectly straight on the edge of George’s property for over 20 years. Luckily his neighbor planted some rather fast growing hedges of his own, and they’re now taller than the truck, blocking his view. George put his truck there in 1989, when he bought his new truck, the truck he still drives every day to work and back.

Yes, his neighbor can’t see that old truck any more. But I can. I see it every day as I walk out of my front door, or drive down the street; it, and the flowers George planted in the open engine compartment. There’s plenty of room for flowers there, since the engine block isn’t in the truck anymore. No, that’s on the front porch of his house, right next to a tire which serves as a beer cooler/ash tray holder.

Yes, George works every weekend around his house, pruning his pickup truck or fertilizing his toilet.

But all of this changed about three months ago; and all because of six numbers. Six magical numbers that appeared, one after the other, and just happened to match the numbers on the lottery ticket that George had bought at the Lucky Mart, with a case of Old Red beer and a carton of Vantage cigarettes.

We all heard the news that someone in town had won the lottery; they don’t give away $10 million dollars and not announce it on the news. Everyone who shops at the Lucky Mart was talking about it, wondering who the winner was. No one had any idea that George was the winner, until … well, until things started to change at George’s house.

The first inkling we had was when George left for work one day and came home in a new pickup truck, one of those trucks with four doors and six wheels and sits so high up in the air that you need a rope ladder to get in the thing. I thought it was strange that George bought a new truck, considering that he usually drove one for 30 years or more before replacing it. Well, this is good, I thought, since that ’89 Chevy pickup truck was also showing signs of rust and wear. A new truck sitting in his front yard was at least an improvement over what he had.

Until his old truck showed back up, and George had a new fence ”“ this one on the right hand side of his property.

I first saw this when I got home from work and noticed my neighbor directly across the street from me digging holes, apparently for some fast growing hedges.

And then there were three pickup trucks in George’s front yard, two of which (after a week) were now fence/planter combinations. The motor for the last truck was also removed from the engine compartment, but it wasn’t put on the front porch. No, this one was hanging from a rope, out of the lone tree in George’s yard, and in each of the eight cylinders there was planted a flower.

George now had a hanging planter, which nicely complimented the toilet.

Did I mention that George also had some unique porch furniture? Yes, apparently the bench seat from a 1956 Ford F-100 pickup truck made an excellent couch, because that’s what sat on his porch from 1989 until just a few weeks ago. Suddenly that disappeared, and in its place appeared two bucket seats from a 1989 Chevy pickup truck. But these seats weren’t the same old seats George had taken out of his old truck/new fence. No, George had them recovered, in bright yellow vinyl no less. Probably put him out $30 or so.

The next big change, and what finally tipped us off as to the identity of our recent lottery winner, was when George painted his house. Did I mention that it hadn’t been painted? I don’t mean “hadn’t been painted since 1960”; no, I mean it had never been painted. It was plywood siding, straight from the mill. But now it was getting a fresh coat of paint. And we all realized why George had refinished his new porch furniture in bright yellow … so it would match his house.

It looked like a canary, without feathers, feet or wings.

The town was abuzz with the news that George was now a millionaire. Reporters from as far away as Bloomville showed up, taking pictures and trying to interview George. But he ignored every one of them, until a film crew from the wrestling network showed up to do a live interview. And the reason that this particular station won the rights to interview our local millionaire was because George had taken some of his new-found winnings and built a shrine to professional wrestling ”“ not in his house, mind you, but in his yard, complete with roped in ring and banners. Some people have trampolines in their yard; but not George. He had a wrestling ring, with banners hanging from his lone tree (right next to his hanging planter, which now was painted the same canary yellow as his porch furniture and house).

Yesterday evening when I came home from work I saw the latest addition to the George Estate: a hot tub. Well, not a real hot tub, but a small, metal, below ground swimming pool insert that George didn’t dig a hole for. No, it sat in his side yard, above ground, full of water, with the Evinrude 20 horsepower engine from his old fishing boat attached to the side.

Every day brings some new ”˜improvement’ to the Casa Del George.

My girlfriend called me ten minutes ago. Apparently George is adding another floor to his simple, one story, canary yellow house. But he’s not building it out of wood. No, not George. It seems that he’s taken the old camping trailer that sat in the street (the one with two flat tires), and somehow got it hoisted up on top of his house. My girlfriend says that the neighbors are all watching in amazement as he’s attaching chains to it, trying to balance it on his roof.

I told her to get my shovel and work gloves out of the garage. As soon as I get home from work I’m going to dig a few holes for some of those fast growing hedges.

MrIQ sent the message, leaned back in his chair, and started counting.

He had got to seven before he heard the unmistakable heavy footsteps of his boss bouncing down the corridor. The door burst open without a knock and a large purple eye stood in the doorway.

"Waddya mean we've got to rewrite all the credits code, I thought all that stuff had been fixed in Worth 3!", thundered the Eye.

"Yep", said MrIQ, "We fixed the bugs, got the counters stable and we even managed to show users how many credits they really have".

"So what's the problem?"

"The totals are only 32 bit, they can't hold more than two billion credits."

The Eye thought about this for a moment, and said "That's a problem? I mean I bet if took all the credits of all the users on Worth it wouldn't be more than a few hundred million".

"Less actually", said MrIQ, "a lot less. Or at least it was." MrIQ paused waiting for the Eye's next question, but seeing the look the Eye was giving him he thought it would be better to come straight to the point: "Somebody has just purchased 5 billion credits."

The Eye blinked.

There was silence, the Eye looked straight ahead whilst MrIQ tried to work out how he managed to do that blinking trick on new Worth.

Eventually the Eye cleared his throat and asked "Who?"

"His nick is 'iwonthelottery', which explains a lot really."

"Perhaps we should get in touch with him; it could just be a stupid error. Maybe...."

The Eye was cut short by MrIQ, "Already done all that. Of course an error was the most likely cause, but the funds had actually been transferred, so he must have good credit. I got in touch with him on PM and it appears that he is someone who really has won the lottery and as he is old and has no family he has decided he wants to become a....... 'patron of the arts'."

The Eye was contained in a small triangular body, just enough to hold the enormous optics, all of which was held up by a pair of short stocky legs that looked like there was almost no space for knees. The legs waddled him over to the window.

"Remind me, just how much does 5 billion credits cost?"

"Five hundred million dollars" replied MrIQ, with the coolness of somebody who had previously worked for a Wall St investment specialist and knew that to some people this was small change.

"And he wants to become a patron of the arts?"

"Yep."

"You know there are a lot of things you could do with a sum like that" continued the Eye, "sponsor exhibitions; buy works from young upcoming artists; place Boticello's outside burger bars; fill the schools in run down neighborhoods with inspiring graphics" he waved his arms up and down in desperation "buy full page ads in sports newspapers and use them to showpiece works of Renoir...."

The Renoir idea appealed to MrIQ, "The large bathers" he said. "Might work. But, he's come to us, and you don't seem very enthusiastic."

The Eye turned to look at him, and when the Eye looked it did it wholesale. "Well of course I'm not, that's a lot of money, a lot of responsibility. OK, there is a lot we can do with it, expand operations, get more people, more contest types more participants and yes, Worth has never done anything other than promote the creative arts and yet........"

"And yet?", MrIQ broke the pause, and continued: "The impression I got was that he is too old to be bothered to do anything himself but he wants the money to go to the arts to do something completely radical, zany, over the top, that's why he came to us. We do crazy, remember."

"Do we?", asked the Eye rhetorically. "Yes, we're the avant guarde of the arts; chopping, digital photography, graphics....everything being done in the latest and greatest way with a virtual community that doesn't require us all to meet up in a trendy neighborhood of some great city...but all that means is we are modern." He turned to look out of the window again. "Five hundred million dollars; that deserves radical, really radical, not just turning VIP's into hairy purple muppets."

"And you think our worthians would have a problem with that?", asked MrIQ, "just tell them 'more cowbell' and I'm sure you would get.....well....more cowbell!"

"Like?"

"Well, for example, we could do real chopping, go out in a derelict neighborhood, chop the buildings up and re arrange them; architecture on acid, worth style!"

"We could probably do a pretty good job of chopping the automobiles as well" observed the Eye.

"Then we could paint all the roads and sidewalks so you get all kinds of 3D views as you move along them."

"I'm liking the sound of this", said the Eye with a glint. "A whole Worth neighborhood where everything is art."

"I can imagine the MM section could rustle up some superb cuisine for the bars and restaurants" said MrIQ.

"We could hold workshops where we teach the tourists to make sketches as they go around rather than take snapshots." The Eye's enthusiasm was visibly growing, you could almost visualize him standing under a big archway with 'Welcome to Worthland' written across it.

"Nightclubs where people get given an instrument at the entrance and have to make their own music" continued MrIQ. "Gymnasiums with the most creative exercises ever; we could put tubs of clay in the public squares so people could make their own statues and have grammar cops patrolling the streets to give out rhetoric lessons to sloppy speakers."

"The clocks that tell the time in the most imaginative ways" said the Eye. "The people who want to dress in their own unique style, the law courts where the crime is doing something normal.....oh yes Mr iwonthelottery, we will be worthy of your patronage, we will be Worthy!"

When Hank won the Super Max Lottery, I knew the world was in trouble. Don't get me wrong Hank is a great person, and if anybody deserves an extra 250 million (besides me I mean,) it's him. Look at the way he rescues all those animals and shares his home with them. It isn't everybody who will let deer wander through their living room without at least considering turning one of them into roasts.

The first thing that Hank did with his money was to buy a proper home. Here's a guy who's been living in a tar paper shack that his Pappy built. It's been just him and the critters since his mother, God rest her soul, went to her reward some twenty years back. Now Hank was used to his shack and he didn't want something that he wouldn't be comfortable in.

So Hank went looking for a contractor to build him his new house because while he makes a mighty fine moonshine he doesn't know one end of a hammer from the other. The problem he had was that what he wanted didn't fit within what the rest of the world calls the building code. Who builds tar paper shacks these days? Even if they are sixteen bedroom shacks. They kept telling him that tar paper was too flammable and he needed a proper foundation and actual indoor plumbing and the like.

Hank was livid. I mean what's the world coming to when a man wins a quarter billion dollars and still can't get what he wants? So naturally Hank came to me.

"Hey Bubba," Hank said, coming into my office and sitting himself in front of my desk. I put down the report I was writing and gave him my attention. "I want you to go arrest them contractors. They ain't doing what they said they would." He went on to explain his problem with building codes and plumbing.

"Sorry, Hank," I said, "The law is on their side. We can have folks just going around building what ever they want and no thought for their neighbours."

"You know I ain't got any neighbours, Bubba."

I took a couple of deep breaths here. First, because I don't like being called Bubba. My name is Sydney for Pete's sake, and I'm a woman. But Hank figures that a sheriff is called Bubba the same as the minister down at First Baptist is called pastor. The second reason I took that deep breath is because I knew I would need it later. Talking with Hank is like that.

"You've got the Wilson's not far down the road, and the Mackenzie's up the other way."

"Who are they?"

"The Wilson's are the ones who complain about the mess in your front yard on Sundays and the Mackenzie's are Friday."

"Right, who's Wednesday?"

"Mrs. Chin."

"Right, I guess I do have neighbours."

"Yup."

"What if I just buy all them houses?"

"You still would live within town limits." Which made him my problem instead of the State police. I had a brief vision of him sitting at the desk of my State counterpart. You know the joke about the cop who stops the proctologist's assistant? That statie is the punch line for sure. "If they change the law for you, they have to change the law for everybody."

I could see Hank digesting that.

"So if I want to build a house the way I want it, I can't live in town."

"I guess that's right."

"But my Pappy, built his house and nobody fussed with him."

"When your Pappy built the shack, it wasn't in town limits yet."

"The town is growing?"

"Yup," I said and waved at the reports on my desk. "It keeps going like this I'm going to have to hire a deputy."

"Can you hire me?" Hank said, "I always wanted to be a deputy."

"Sorry Hank," I said trying not to imagine Hank in a uniform. "You need high school to be a deputy."

"I could go back to school."

I had a brief vision of Hank's two hundred and fifty pound, six foot frame jammed into one of Ms. Haskell's grade six desks. But as much as I didn't like her, I dismissed the idea.

"It wouldn't be fair, Hank. You've got money and everything. I would have to hire someone who needed the job." And wouldn't get me laughed out of the next Sheriff's convention I went to.

"Right." Hank sighed lugubriously and dragged himself out of my office.

I put Hank out of my mind for the moment and went back to my reports. I had barely managed to work my way through the Monthly Summary Report of Parking Violations when my office door opened and Mr. Wilson stormed in.

"Sherrif," he shouted, "You must do something about Hank immediately."

"It's Tuesday," I said, "Why are you complaining today?"

"That pest hole of a property is killing my property value," he shouted.

I wasn't worried about the shouting. Mr. Wilson was pretty much deaf as a post and he always shouted. Word of Hank's good fortune was getting around.

"I know you folks up on the hill have all signed a homeowner's agreement, but the lawyers at the town hall have told me that you can make it retroactive. Hank was there first. He hasn't signed anything so the only thing I can do is enforce the town bylaws."

"It's outrageous, that, that, that bumpkin should have all that money and still be able to ruin my property. I'll sue him. I'll sue the whole town." He stomped out of my office and slammed the door behind him. I rubbed my forehead; word of Hank's good fortune was getting around. It was going to be one of those days.

I had just managed to pick up the papers that the slamming door had blown on the floor when the office door flew open again. I put the stapler on the papers to hold them in place and looked at Mrs. Mackenzie.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, "What can I do for you?" I watched her eyes fill with tears.

"My prize roses," she said, "My Prince of Wales roses.... THAT MAN's deer ate them off to the ground." She never called Hank by name. She knew the name of every rose ever grown, but couldn't remember the name of any human but her husband. "You need to make THAT MAN pay for new ones."

"It's Tuesday, Mrs Mackenzie, why are you complaining today?"

"His deer ate my roses. He needs to replace them."

"It wouldn't have anything to do with the lottery results now would it?"

"You are a horrible woman," Mrs. Mackenzie said, "I am never going to vote for you again." She left my office. I had my doubts that she had ever voted for me before. I don't think she could remember my name long enough.

I went back to my paper work waiting for the next interruption. Sure enough the door swung open and Mrs. Chin came in.

"Sheriff Sydney," she said before I finished putting my pen down, "You must do something."

"It's only Tuesday."

"Pardon?"

"It's only Tuesday," I said, "you always complain about Hank on Wednesdays."

"Yes, Hank is annoying and his house is an eyesore, but this is worse."

"What could be worse than Hank?"

"They're going to log the hills behind our house. I will get up in the morning and look at desert instead of that beautiful forest."

"I don't have any jurisdiction over that, Mrs. Chin. The hills are outside town limits."
"Please, you must do something," she said, "I will even stop complaining about Mr. Hank's yard."

That's when it hit me. I closed up my office and headed out to Hank's place.

"Hey Hank," I yelled as I knocked on his door.

"Hi, Bubba," Hand said, "You here about my yard again?"

"I think I have an idea that might just make a lot of people happy."

"Well you might as well come in then."

"So what's up?" he asked as soon I had settled myself.

"You know that tract of land up in the hills," I said.

"Yep, Pappy used to take me camping up there."

"Some folks are thinking about logging it out."

"That would be terrible. Where will the animals live? Someone needs to do something about it. We can't let them kill the forest just because they have money...."

I swear I could hear the gears in Hank's head turning.

"Do you think 250 million would buy the forest up there?" he asked.

"I think you might even have a little change left over." I said.

"It ain't in town limits either..."

"Nope."

"I think," Hank said, "it's time I bought me some land."

So that's how I ended up working as Hank's number one security person on his wilderness ranch. Though he still calls me Bubba, for what he's paying me I don't mind.

Tap-tap! Bang! Zing!

The noises coming from Mr. Goodrich’s backyard were enough to cause even the shiest person to take a peek, and the seven-year-old Gage Wagner was no exception. Curiously he climbed up on top of an old stepladder his father had left in the backyard and glanced over the edge of the fence.

“What are you doing?” he inquired, staring at a massive explosion of stray electrical wires and dismantled computers that lay strewn across the neighbor’s yard.

“Eh?”

The boy gave a start when a pale face poked out from under a particularly large pile of rubble. He relaxed, however, when he realized it was only Mr. Goodrich. What with his long, white hair poking out in every-which direction, the old man looked like he’d just stuck all ten fingers in an electric socket.

“Um…what are you doing?” Gage repeated, though this time he was slightly more hesitant.

“Ah’m makin’ a galactic teller-phone, ye’see,” the old man replied, patting the giant hunk of metal fondly, causing a piece of hot-glued aluminum to clatter to the ground and a length of copper wire to pop into view. “Those gen’rous fellas in da black car gave me all da money ah needed ta do this here job.”

“A…galactic telephone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is it supposed to do?”

“What’s it s’posed ta do, he says!” Mr. Goodrich laughed, wriggling out from under his invention and bounding to his oversized feet. “Why, ta call me ma, that’s what!”

“Call your what?”

“Me ma. Ye know, what some people call d’eir mother,” he replied, being sure to stress the “o” in “mother”.

Gage cocked his head in confusion, then prodded, “But your mom isn’t in outer space.”

The old man shook his head as though greatly pained by the boy’s words, muttering something under his breath, then, motioning for the boy to come closer, said, “But she is up thar ye know.”

“Your mom’s an astronaut?” the boy questioned, his brow knit with confusion.

“No, no,” Mr. Goodrich replied with a shake of his head. “She’s a…” he glanced around as though to make sure no one else was listening, then leaned forward and whispered, “She’s a alien!”

“An alien?!” Gage exclaimed with a laugh. “Mr. Goodrich, you’re funny!”

“No, lad,” the old man replied. “Ye see, ah was but a li’l young’un when our ship done crashed int’a earth. Me ma got rescued by other aliens, but ah been left here. This teller-phone, though, will let me call ”˜er.”

“So...” the boy mused, glancing around. “How’s it supposed to work?”

“Well, ye see this here button?” Mr. Goodrich pointed out eagerly, directing Gage’s attention to a large red bike reflector duct tapped to the outside of the machine. “That’s how ye start ”˜er up. Now ye just hold on thar and ah’ll finish da tunin’. After that ah’ll let ye say hallo, ”˜kay?”

Gage frowned in utter confusion as his neighbor proceeded to fiddle around with a mass of wires, turn some screws with an electric screwdriver, and bang on the sheets of metal with a hammer. At last the old man set his tools aside and stood back to examine his invention.

“Thar, now. Let’s have a go at it.”

With that he pressed on the reflector and flipped a switch. Instantly the sound of static, mixed with a woman’s voice, broke the stillness of the quiet suburban afternoon. It was obviously the radio, but Mr. Goodrich apparently thought that it was something else. Quickly he picked up a toilet plunger that was attached to the hunk of metal by a telephone cable and, putting it close to his mouth, said excitedly, “Ma?! Ma, can ye hear me?”

“That’s the radio, Mr. Goodrich,” Gage corrected.

“No, no, that’s me ma! Ye wanna say hi?”

Gage looked from the outstretched plunger, to the electrically-powered junk pile, over to the eccentric old man, then back down at the plunger.

“Um…no thanks,” he replied, preparing to make a hasty exit. “You can tell her hi for me.”

Dear Martha,

Remember when I lost my job a few years ago? You couldn’t stand being married to a poor man, so you divorced me. Well, I just wanted to inform you that I recently won $1,000,000,000 in the lottery. One billion dollars. In order to rub it in your face, I am going to tell you about all the wonderful things I plan on doing with my money. I can do whatever I want because I don’t have to share it with anyone now that I am single.

First, I am going to buy the majority of the shares of the company that you work for, so I will be the owner of your company. Then I will make them fire you. Let’s see how you like it. I hope your new boyfriend dumps you. Then I will buy billboards all over town and post that picture of you at my birthday party where you look old and fat. After that I will never waste any more money on you.

Now on to the fun stuff! I am going to have a huge mansion built, with hundreds of rooms and two swimming pools. One pool will be filled with dollar bills so I can swim in the glory that is money. The other will be filled with Jell-O. I will pay all of the female models in the region to come over and have a party with my friends and me. I am going to have an arcade, a bowling alley, and a full bar in my house. I will have a bartender, a cook, a maid, and a personal trainer, all of whom will be very attractive young women. I will have a flat screen TV in every room, including the bathroom. I will have a baseball diamond in my yard where I can enjoy playing my favorite sport with anyone who would care to join me. Everyone will want to be with me all the time. (And you thought I didn't have friends.)

Eventually I will get bored with all of the amazing things in my house, so I have some even-more-amazing plans. I am going to build a complex that holds multiple racetracks of different sizes, where I will host snail, crab, snake, rabbit, cat, bear, lion, and camel races. I am going to pay some of the country's best engineers to build me a giant flying robot that I can control remotely (think Transformers meets Iron Man). I can’t guarantee that I won't 'accidentally' crash it into your house. I will pay an artist to create multiple sculptures of me, and then pay companies to let me put sculptures outside of their buildings. My handsome bronze or marble image will be everywhere. Naturally, I will keep one in my house where I can admire it everyday. I will buy a baseball team and make sure they are the best in the nation. They will beat the Yankees in the World Series, which will make you sad since they’re your favorite team. When I feel like it, I will hold private games that only I can watch.

By this time I will obviously have a much prettier new wife, who I will buy really expensive chocolate and gorgeous one-of-a-kind jewelry for. I will buy a private beach where we can go to spend romantic weekends together. I will buy her a tennis court, a sauna, a tanning salon, and a beauty parlor. She will never leave me because no one in the world will be able to make her happier than I will.

When we have children I will spoil them rotten. I will pay geneticists to make sure we have a boy and a girl. I will buy my son a race car and teach him to drive it. I will buy race cars for all of his friends, and will let them use my racetrack. Of course my son’s car will be better than all the rest, so he will always win. I will buy my daughter a pony and hire a trainer who will teach her to ride it. It will be the prettiest and most agile pony, and they will win every competition in the state. I will buy a sweets shop so they can have any type of candy, ice cream, or pastry they can imagine. I will make sure that they both go to expensive private schools all the way through college. They will both have anything they want and they will love me for it.

All of this could have been yours, but you couldn't wait for me to get back on my feet. Now everything you could only have imagined will be mine, and mine alone. I hope you are miserable and jealous.

Ha Ha Ha,
Greg

SCHENECTADY ”“ Decades of effort finally paid off for Roy Duffield on Tuesday evening when he found out that he was the sole winner of the 39 million dollar Mega Lotto Jackpot. The unemployed Schenectady native, 47, has been buying up lottery tickets every week since he was old enough to do so, but after this - his first win - he does not plan to rest on his laurels.

"Gambling is wrong, you know?" Duffield said in an exclusive WRGB interview. "I always knew there was no hope of getting rid of the lottery via the courts since they’re all bought and paid for, so from an early age I’ve been doing the next best thing- buy all the lottery tickets I can, so that nobody else has the chance to waste their money. This win vindicates all my years of effort and obviously expands my ability to purchase tickets."

Duffield is a familiar face to local ticket vendors, who have long found him to be a reliable source of income and entertainment.

"I am surprised it has taken him this long to win something," said Michael Holland, who owns several convenience stores in the area. "Duffy is my most reliable customer. Every day he gives my clerks a lecture about how wrong they are to be selling lottery tickets, and every day he walks out the door with most of our stock. At first we thought it was some sort of joke, but he is a very serious man."

Mega Lotto spokesman Jerry Slater "wish[ed] him all the best," but had no further comment about Duffield’s win or his campaign against the lottery.

So is Duffield really going to devote his entire winnings to his anti-lottery efforts?

"Well, I do have some debts to pay off. Since I don’t have a job, I’ve always used credit cards to pay for my lottery tickets. Don’t get me started on them! In fact, as soon as I get rid of the lottery, the credit card companies are next! But one battle at a time."