It is a known burden to win the lottery. Be careful whom you tell...
|"You ready, Scotty?”
"Ready, Lon, in three, two one—"
“This is Lon Carlson reporting from the little town of Langston, Arizona. This quiet community—"
"Screw you, Morison, you cheap skating swindler son of a—"
"You’re going to rot in hell, Morison! "
“Population of just under 300. This quiet community has been anything but quiet for much of the last week ever since the winning lottery ticket for 987 million dollars was bought right here at the Stop and Shop Market on the corner of Langston Avenue and Main street.”
“Ok, Scotty, now get the house. And show the crowd. Good.”
“As you can see, nearly all 300 residents are out here In front of number 19 Langston Avenue where a Mr. Ralph Morison lives by himself. It seems the townsfolk are not very pleased with Mr. Morison for two reasons. One: Mr. Morison was the chief loan officer of the only bank in town between 2008 to 2012 at the height of the real-estate crisis. It has been reported, he alone was personally responsible for the calling-in of loans to roughly half the town, putting family after family out on the street. In a tight community such as Langston, this won Mr. Ralph Morison no friends…”
"Keep on the mob and the house, Scotty!" Lon came over and stood next to the cameraman. It was now an egg came out of the crowd and hit the front door of the Morison house. Then a glowering face appeared behind one of the curtained windows to the side of the house.
“Did you get the egg?”
“I got the egg!”
The whole town watched as the yellow egg yolk slide down the red door and a cheer went up by all 300 people in the street.
“Scotty! You’re a genius! Okay, back to me.”
“The second reason for the towns extreme displeasure with Mr. Morison is a bit of a salt in the wound thing. Though Mr. Morison won no fans here with his banking procedures, there is every reason to believe he won something else. This town strongly believes Mr. Morison won last week’s lottery for 987 million dollars! A claim that Mr. Morison adamantly refutes. Morison insists he has won no money whatsoever. I must say however, the brand new caddy in the driveway, plus the new appliances arriving almost hourly to his front door obviously only casts more doubt and more outrage from the townsfolk at his denial of what seems only too obvious; By all appearances, Mr. Felix Morison has without doubt come into a great deal of money and is not shy about spending it."
As if God was helping Lon with the production of this news item, it was then a large truck appeared moving ever so slowly along Langston Ave. With horn honking intermitted, it traveled down through the crowd and pulled into the Morison driveway. The crowd began to boo.
“You getting the truck?”
“I got the truck!”
Again Lon looked through the camera viewfinder with Scotty. He watched as the focus cleared to easily read the huge painted words on the side of the truck. Lancaster Fiberglass Pools. Below this were the words, Turn your backyard dream into reality!
A fat man with a clipboard hopped out of the driver’s side of the cab. Two other men hopped out the other side. They came around the front of the truck to peer with obvious concern at the 300 people in the street all waving fists and screaming at once.
The red front door of the house opened and out walked Felix Morison waving his arms.
The crowd went silent.
“I didn’t order no damn pool!”
“What do you mean you didn’t order it? You already paid for it in advance!”
Mr. Morison shook his head and said something else to the fat man with the clipboard, but his words were drowned out by the crowd which was again screaming profanities.
Lon realized there was not much reporting he could do now as the language being used was not something he could put on the air. He looked back at the little grocery store on the corner. Outside the door sat eight or ten people on lawn chairs drinking beer. They seemed to be having a grand time watching the antics in front of 19 Langston Ave.
“Scotty, you keep filming here, I’m going over to the store on the corner to interview those people.”
“You got it boss.”
As Lon approached the little store he realized these people were not just drinking beer, they each had Champagne glasses in their hands.
One of the men in the lawn chairs broke into a bleary-eyed grin. “You’re Lon Carlson!” he said happily. “I seen you on the TV!”
“You own this store?” Lon asked.
“No, that would be my brother,” the man said and nodded to his right where seven other men sat back in lawn chairs with Champagne glasses in their hands.
Some of the men were older than the others but they all seemed identical. They had green eyes which were now a little rosy in color because of the wine. They all had thick red hair.
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?” Lon asked.
The man in the middle of the group shook his head. “We have nothing to say to the press,” he said loudly. It was a command to the others.
“Look now!” a man said.
Lon turned to spot another truck coming through the crowd. Jenny More Horse Farms was written on the side of the trailer.
“You got him a horse?”
“Two,” the man in charge said.
With that, all the men in the lawn chairs erupted with laughter.
It was then Lon noticed the gold watches on each man’s wrist. “Must be nice to come into a fortune all at once, huh?”
“I would guess, you could sure have some fun with it!” the man in the middle agreed.