The Winner: Part Three

I often get skidmarks in my underwear. When it comes to wiping my ass after taking a dump, I must admit I am quite lax. My buttcrack is especially hairy so it's more of an ordeal for me than it is for most people, but that's really just a lame excuse. I'm sure even Chewbacca doesn't leave a brown mark on the co-pilot seat of the Millenium Falcon every time he sits down. I, on the other hand, gave up on wearing white underwear years ago.

However, I haven't taken a real shit in my pants since I was seven years old and still eating my boogers. A seventeen-year streak (so to speak) of shit-free underwear comes to an end as I stand at the bus-stop, holding in my hands the lotto ticket that will change my life as I know it forever.

"Oh-my-god that is FUCKING DISGUSTING!" one of the people who is sitting at the bus-stop yells. The smell and the gooey wet stain on the seat of my pants has become all too apparent. I am still in too much shock for it to really bother me. Still, it did change my initial reaction from screaming "I'm a winner!" to just shuffling off down the street embarassed like I usually do.

I hold the ticket in a sweaty death-grip as I walk towards no particular location. A group of black teenagers pass by me on the sidewalk and jump out of my way when they get a whiff of me. "Damn! That peckerwood done shit his pants!" one of them announces while the others laugh.

While groups of black teenagers typically scare me, I can't help but crack a smile. To the world I am just another lost soul walking around blindly with a load quickly spackling my buttcheeks together. I knew the truth though; that I had in my hand something that was worth more money than any of them could ever leech from the welfare system in their lifetime.

When I finally come out of my mental funk, I realize I need to claim my prize as fast as possible. I start getting paranoid. This wilted slip of paper is the only proof that I'm a winner. If anybody finds out, they are sure to try and take it from me. Looking on the back of the ticket, there was an 1-800 number to call if you wished to claim the prize. I saw a 7-11 close by, so I hobbled over to the payphones on the side of the building.

There was a bum hitting people up for change outside the doors. "Hey brother...can you spare a dollar? I just need some change so I can take the bus..."

Normally I'd tell him to fuck himself, but seeing as I just turned into a millionaire, I can afford to be magnanimus. Besides, I didn't want him listening in on my phone call. "Buddy, here's TWO dollars if you move your ass to the other side of the building. I gotta have a 'special' talk with my girlfriend if you know what I mean..." I said, even though I didn't know what that meant.

He takes the bills, but stays there dazed anyway. I can smell the malt liquor on his breath even over the load of shit in my pants. "Brother...do you have a cigarette?"

"I don't smoke. Now shoo."

"Wh-what about another dollar? I haven't had anything to eat for days bro."

I get another dollar out of my pocket, crumple it up, and tossed it past his head to the other side of sidewalk. He turns his attention from me and walks over to retrieve it. "You're welcome," I sneer, before picking up the receiver on the phone and dialing the number on the back of the ticket.

The phone rings four times before some prim sounding bitch picks up. "You've reached the Lottery Commission office. This is Jane, how may I assist you?"

"Umm..." I try and speak as quietly as I can. "I think I won the lottery last night. The ticket said to call this number."

"Where and at what time was your ticket purchased?"

"I think it was about nine at the Texaco on East Harper Road."

"Please read the numbers from your ticket, starting from right to left."

I repeated the winning numbers.

"On the upper left corner of your ticket is a nine digit number that starting with the letter H. Please read them to me."

I did. More clacking on the keyboard.

"Please hold sir..." and some annoying smooth jazz hold-music immediately started playing. I figured this was a good sign. If I was just a crank, they would have told me to fuck off. After what felt like an interminable amount of time, the receptionist finally came back on the phone.

"Sir, the numbers you provided us are consistent with the winning Superball ticket for the contest on the twenty-fifth of November..."

I couldn't hold back at this point. I burst out, "FUCKIN' A CHRIST ON A RUBBER CRUTCH I WON, BITCH! I FUCKIN' RULE!" Then I decide that announcing this to the world was not the wisest idea in the world, so I reign myself back in. "So, what do I do now?"

"First, may I get your full name? Your identity will not be made public until the jackpot is verified."

"Poopy Patrick Peanutz the Second. That's Peanutz with a Z on the end."

"Hmm," she grunts, then clacks on the keyboard some more. "Now, in order to collect the jackpot, you must have the original and unaltered ticket purchased at the Texaco at 11456 East Harper Road last night in your possession. While we require the original ticket, we do encourage you to make a legible photocopy of the front and the back for your personal records."

"Not a problem," I say, stuffing the ticket back into the pocket of my shitty jeans.

"You or your attorney will have to come personally to the lottery commission building at Stephenson Plaza downtown. Do you need the address?"

"No, I know exactly where that is. When should I come over?"

"Our office is open between nine and six, Monday through Friday. We will be ready to receive you at any time. Just tell the receptionist your name when you arrive."

"Fuck it, I'll be there today..." I say. It's only eleven o'clock AM, so I'd have plenty of time to get over there. Besides is Friday, and there was no way I was going to wait over the weekend to collect my prize.

"We look forward to seeing you sir," the girl on the other end says. "And once again, congratulations."

I put the receiver back on the hook. Yes, I'm not dreaming (or if it was a dream, it was a very complex dream like the kind I haven't had since I was a child.) Now I just had to get to Stephenson Plaza downtown, which was about ten miles away. Just a short bus ride away and...

FUCK! I'd given that flea bitten bum the last of my cash. I had my checkbook with me and still had money in there. Five-hundred dollars to be exact, which until an hour ago was all the money in the world to me. Still, no place takes checks anymore, much less the bus, so there was a logistical problem in getting to my prize.

Some Indian looking dude comes out of the 7-11 carrying a cup of coffee. He heads over to his cab parked in front of the store. I had an idea. I follow him and as soon as he gets in the cab, I yank open the back seat and jump right in.

"I need to get to Stephenson plaza, downtown. Make it snappy and there's an extra five bucks in it for you, Ahkmed." Of course, I was sure the cabbie wouldn't accept checks (in fact it was printed on the side of the cab.) But once he got me there, I'd just have him wait outside for a few minutes and see if those lottery people would advance me twenty dollars to pay him off.

"What the hell is that smell?" the cabbie says in broken English.

"Nevermind the smell. You can deal with it. This is important. Stephenson Plaza, stat."

He turns around holding his nose and grimaces. "By Vishnu! You are getting dooky all over my seat! Get out of my cab you fucking guy!"

"Chill the fuck out..." I yell. I can't stand it when foriegners get uppity with me. "What's the problem, Apu? You eat some rotten curry this morning or something? Just drive the fucking cab downtow..."

The cabbie turns around, reaches under his seat, and the next thing I know there's a Glock inches from my nose.

"I say get out you motherfucker you!"

Perhaps it's the fact that I've already been shot in the mouth once that I don't seem to fear of guns like I once did. On the other hand, it was unlikely this fuckin' Paki was going to take me anywhere near downtown, so I say, "Fine, I'm outta here. Fuck you. Go the fuck back to Calcutta where you belong."

I step out of the car and slam the door shut. Apu nearly runs me over as he peels his cab out of the parking lot. Whatever, I had to find some other way to get downtown. I'm not too worried though. I can't be that hard, and I had until six o'clock to do it.

But this little encounter with the cab does make something readily apparent; I would need to take care of the little mess in my pants before I could go anywhere. What was I even thinking? They probably wouldn't even let me in the office building if I went in smelling the way I do! Have some dignity, Poopy.

I supposed I could go home and get a change of pants, but I am already a mile away from there. Besides, I don't want to see my mother until all this was official and done with. My mother has done nothing but fuck up my life, there was no way I was going to let her fuck this up.

Down the road, I see a Wal-Mart. I could go there and buy a cheap pair of pants and be on my way. If there was any place that still accepted checks, it would be fucking Wal-Mart, where ninety percent of their customers are trailer trash anyway.

So I hobble down there, trying to ignore the squishy feeling between my buttcheeks.