[TRIGGER WARNING] - Don’t Read This Unless Ur Cool
"If you want to truly destroy a man, give him everything he ever wished for" - Boulet
When they posted the winning lottery numbers online, I thought someone was pranking me - somebody I knew spit in the ball machine or something, and... I don't know how but... they made it so that all the balls that fell matched the ones on my two-dollar square of chemically-treated paper. I gazed blankly around my dingy apartment like a soldier moments after losing a limb, too shocked to even register the pain.
I'll have to amputate this place, won't I? I thought stupidly.
Taco bell wrappers splayed out around me on my sofa-ottoman throne.
I won't have to gorge myself on beef-flavored sand anymore, will I?
I double-checked the numbers on my ticket, confirming the reality of the situation... salivating.
I could eat this ticket right now... then my life wouldn't have to change.
The madness passed, and I staggered out of my apartment on atrophied legs, squinting at the sun. Though partially obscured by clouds, a few rays squinted back at me.
Time to hire three lawyers to... I don't know... fight to the death? How does this work again?
[Seven days later]
I held up the check triumphantly. A small crowd had congregated outside the unassuming 7/11 to watch me accept the largest bounty that had ever been claimed in the United States - 1.5 billion dollars - 750 million of which would shortly become mine, the other half would go to the state.
Uncle Sam always wins the lottery.
I looked back at the oversized, ceremonial slab of cardboard, like Moses admiring the word of God on the stone tablets.
Wait a minute... is that... surely not...
How many zeros are there in a million again?
[Ten years later]
I sipped my bubbly contentedly, the notes of apple a blending perfectly with the spectacle before me.
Three lawyers bumbled around like chickens within a chalk circle. Their arms were tied behind their backs, and they pecked at each other viciously with the knifes sticking out of their mouths, held in place with repurposed kinky ballgag straps.
I do enjoy a good cockfight.
My other hand trailed lazily across the strong back of my pet catgirl, who purred contentedly. She needed all of that tough, sinewy muscle to support the massive fucking GMO titties swinging in the front.
"Sinthia, I hear a knocking at the door. Why don't you greet our guests?"
She nodded, her hardwired near-perfect submissiveness kicking in, and sashayed over to the imposing iron-bar gates.
"Give us our money back!" They shouted petulantly.
No. I thought, unwilling to dignify the peasants with a movement of my mouth.
I won that lottery fair and square. It wasn't my fault that the government had given me 750 trillion instead of 750 million. I can't be held accountable for their mistakes, and if they aren't willing to put in the work to pay back what they owe me... they should just be... exterminated.
Sinthia bared her fangs, and shrieks rang out as the delicious scent of blood filled the air.
In the decade since my good fortune, as my bloated morphology can attest, I'd tried every edible substance and chemical known to man. Or so I'd thought...
With great difficulty, I descended on atrophied legs from my 50 foot obsidian sofa-ottoman throne and waddled over to the carnage.
Each step was a 400 lb burden, but I had long prided myself on my steadfast determination. I would make it to the gate, even if I had to crawl.
I had to crawl.
It's not my fault! One of my numb, greenish feet fell off, so I couldn't walk anymore, obviously. Dumbass.
I slurped at the puddle on the ground, the fresh (NOVEL) taste washing over me, through me. I rubbed my groin, moaning with pleasure, and died of ecstasy.
I instructed my trusted butler Sinthia to compose this story in the event of my untimely demise, so that future generations of catgirls can know of my greatness, and to promptly swallow several pills of cyanide, so that she can never live to contradict the official account.
She'd better do it, or I'll be very angry.