I punch in my redundant PIN number and request twenty smackeroos, which I’m handed stiffly by the supposed clerk on the other side of the envelope-sized slot. Hurrying back to the suited kiosked man, I trip and stumble over a rock. He must have placed it there to hinder me. But he wants my money, that much is certain, so this must be my paranoia acting up. Finally I arrive to his still-standing stall, and again, no one is in line and no one else pays his presence any mind.

“I have returned,” I announce. “I wish to trade a small amount of my money to you with the expectation that a larger amount will come my way in the future.”

A guffaw signals his inexorable response. “Expectation? Try expectoration.”

Heeding his counsel, I turn to my right and spit. The liquid glob lands splatly on the sidewalk before morphing into a visible tartigrade. I spin towards the kiosker for confirmation that he had something to do with this. His blankness says it all. The tardigrade floats in front of my face and starts blowing bubbles made out of random letters. BRKA. SEB. NVR. PCLN. What do the scrambles mean??? BReaK A leg, SEBastian, but NeVeR PaCk a LuNch? Sound advice, sure, but I’m not getting how it’s entirely profitable.

There is gold within the clues, I now trust, and I must mine it or pan it or extract it with precision. More letters arrive. MKL. WTM. ISRG.

These ones I can figure out, I’m sure of it, with the right amount of focus and cunning. I don’t use either as the solution pops into my head. MiKe LaW TiMe IS RaGe? MeKe aLt WhyT Mein Into StRroGates? MaKe aLl WhiTe Men Into SuRroGates! That’s it!

Elated, I howl my discovery in repetition, emphasizing different syllables with each turn. I eventually quiet myself to maintain my caution, careful not to let this eureka-worthy idea into the wrong hands before I file a patent copyright trademark.

His claim now verified and his pay collected, kiosk guy goes the way of the tartigrade and floats away. I’m left with my optimistic financial future ahead of me, and while I don’t know where to begin, I do know that, before it’s all over, I will be turning each and every pale male into a proxy of some sort. There is no doubt in my mind that reaching this goal will be the first step in the creation of my own Berkshire Hathaway, whatever the hell that is.

[Editor’s note: A prelude to this conclude occurred on the yester.]

October 13 – Sacha Baron Cohen gets advice from a man in a suit in a kiosk on a street
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