Hidden Embers: Mist Over Monticello

HIDDEN EMBERS

Mist Over Monticello (part three)

by Bevie James

The sound of a vehicle slowing made them perk up. Then, a sack dropped from above onto the far embankment. Wafula jumped up and splashed heedlessly through the water. Mulogo floated, avoiding Wafula’s splashing. He reached the bag first.

“It’s here, Wafula!”

Wafula smiled. “Is it all there?”

Mulogo began pulling bundled wads of money. “Yes, I think so. He wrapped it in bundles of one hundreds. One thousand, two thousand, three …”

“Wait a minute!”

Mulogo paused in his counting. “What?” Wafula snatched the sack from Mulogo’s hand. “Hey! I was counting that.”

Ignoring the complaint, Wafula tore through the bundles, tossing them into the river after examination. Finally, he chucked the entire bag into the current. Mulogo looked on, horrified.

“Why did you do that?”

“Because it’s not real!” snarled Wafula.

Perplexed, Mulogo looked at the three bundles he still held in his hands. “Not real? But it’s here. I’m holding it. It’s real, Wafula.”

Wafula tore the remaining bundles from Mulogo and waved them in his face.

“Who’s picture is this on the bills?”

“How should I know? I’m not from this planet, much less the country or state.”

“States don’t have their own money, you idiot.”

“Well how should I know that?”

“Because you’re supposed to be brilliant.”

“I am brilliant. There is no picture on the bills. Just the number one hundred.”

“Exactly!”

“Exactly? Exactly what?”

“They’re supposed to have Benjamin Franklin’s picture. This is Monopoly money! We’ve been double-crossed.”

“Double-crossed? And he seemed such a nice man, too.”

Wafula began seething. His blue skin darkened with his anger. “Yes. And when I get my hands on that son-of-a-bitch he is going to regret it to his dying day.”

Mulogo’s expression turned sardonic. “Well, that won’t be long. I’m assuming you’re going to kill him, right?”

“Of course I’m going to kill him! How dare he do this to us?”

“Yeah, but how do you know he’s the one who threw this? Maybe someone else threw this bag and he’s still coming with the real money?”

Wafula’s hands went into the air, desperate to grab something to break. “What is with you anyway? Do you think people just drive around throwing bags of Monopoly money over bridges? Why would they do that?”

Mulogo shrugged. “How should I know? This is a strange planet, and you are strange people. You mess up the very air and water you need to survive. What’s the sense in that?”

“Come on! We’re heading back to the city. And when I get my hands on that guy, I’m going to pull him apart like a squishy banana.”

“Squishy bananas don’t pull apart, do they?”

“Shut up!”

At that moment, the oil stain on the underside of the bridge fell to the embankment. It coalesced into the form of a man in an ash grey suit. Wafula and Mulogo stopped midstream.

“What is this?” demanded Wafula.

“An arrest,” said the man.

“Oh, this should be interesting,” said Mulogo.