Sunday, November 7, 2010

Because I'm Rich

Mr. Hughes smelt like mothballs. He collected crumbs in his beard the way coin collectors coveted rare Buffalo Silver Dollars. His house was filled with pictures of celebrities that he took the time to meticulously cut from magazine covers and then showcase in outrageously expensive frames. On Fridays, he would squire up and coming starlets around town in his mother's Rolls Royce. However, on every third Friday of the month he would call up the Sex Phone Hotline and spend his night panting into the receiver while clipping his toenails. Mr. Hughes did not have many redeeming qualities. However, he was very very rich, and usually that helped.

His mother, Mrs. Hughes, spent her days directing invisible orchestras in the NYC OldFeller's Retirement center. She believed that the orderlies regularly poisoned her lime jello and would squirrel it back to her room, where she sneakily deposited it in a hat box in her closet. She lived for the second Tuesday of the month when her son, little Jimmy, would visit for the afternoon. He would sit in the mustard colored chair in the corner of the room, sniffing distastefully as he asked her how she was doing. Mrs. Hughes would berate him for his growing beer belly, his lack of style, his insistence of wearing a comb-over, his stooped shoulders. It was the happiest part of her month.

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