The Fake Ones (by Thomas Hunter)Trapper just rung me to say he got fucked over while trying to pay for something with a counterfeit $5 bill.
It's just like Trapper to get the real ones confused with the fakes. Any visitor to Trapper's place will see how that could happen. He has cupboards, drawers, cabinets, baskets, fridges, boxes, lockers and sideboards like the rest of us, but he prefers not to clutter them with things. Much like his mind. Encumbrance-free. The floor, couch, fridge-top, bed, chairs, table and TV are his favoured storage devices. Ease of access, he says. Saves on rummaging.
He only paid $2000 for the $10,000 and was told to spend them one at a time and always with other notes. Bury them and you'll be sweet. It was good sales advice, clear enough for Trapper, but even before we left the pub I said he would fuck it up. He agreed, but said the perfection of the forgeries was insurance of a sort. Besides, it was just for the groceries, the occasional tram ticket. A down payment on the future. Slow release wealth creation.
Problem was, it wasn't just one note he was passing off. Fool handed over a stack strapped in the forgery-printing cast-offs. He was after a wall-sized TV, presumably for storage space. Who pays for consumer electronics with $5 notes? Now I have to take a promise of my own money down the station to buy his freedom. Again.
[The second short short story series is announced and explained here.]