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- 11/02/2020
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
The Lottery - 1. Chapter 1
“Jeff, you want to go to lunch?”
“I need to stop at the lottery office first.”
“Did you hit again?”
“Yes, but only 500 dollars. I would like to hit the big one. That would set me up for life.”
My name is Jeff Simpson. When I was in college, I took a course in probability and statistics. During that semester, I worked on a theory concerning the probability of picking the numbers in the local lotteries. I charted the last five years of lotto winners and corresponding numbers. Then I started to play the lotto at the local grocery store. At first, I was winning 50 to 75 dollars. During this time, I was continuing to modify my thesis on lottery picks. The result was I started to win in the hundreds, 200 here, 300 there. I also began to buy tickets in different places. My goal was to hit it big.
The day I hit for 30,000 dollars, I knew I was on the right track. I started to play the big lotto where you could win millions. Each time I would win, I deposited the winnings in a special account. The vice president of my bank tried to get me to invest the money in their investment program. I thought about that, but instead of investing, I bought five-year CDs that paid a decent interest.
I had several combinations, so I played them all. That amounted to 10 tickets, and now I waited. The first power ball, I earned 10,700 dollars. I kept playing, and then it happened, I finally hit the jackpot for 583 million on one ticket, one million on the other ticket, plus another 500 on a third ticket. Now I was set for life. Of course, the publicity didn’t help. The work’s reaction was interesting, close friends congratulated me, and others were upset because I didn’t share my numbers or my system. I resigned from my position. I put my small apartment on the market and moved back home.”
I discovered no matter where I went. People came after me. Relatives, friends (who I hadn’t seen for years) all sought me out. I paid off Mom and Dad’s mortgage. Dad always wanted a place in the mountains where he could go and fish. I bought him a log cabin with easy access to a fishing stream that was close to the cabin. I took care of them. Dad didn’t need to work anymore; he could quit his job at the mill. I set up a trust fund that paid them monthly a little more than what he earned at the mill. After setting up a savings account for emergencies, I disappeared. Mom and Dad could reach me by phone, and I would be available if they needed me.
I traveled in Europe for six months. Mom kept me up to date on day to day happenings at home. Over the six months, the number of relatives calling began to drop. Mom told them that I was traveling, and she didn’t know when I would be back.
“Before leaving Europe, I started to check for property in various states. I wanted a place with a lot of ground so I could guarantee my privacy. I looked at estates with big elaborate homes, but that told people that I was wealthy, and my relatives would soon find me. I decided to look for acreage in farm country where I could be isolated. I found a farm in Virginia that was for sale. It looked interesting, about 4 hours from DC but far enough away that it wouldn’t be considered a DC suburb.
I made an appointment to see the property using an alias. I flew into Dulles International airport from London, rented a car, and headed to Virginia. I stayed at a hotel in Wytheville, which was within an hour’s drive to the property. I called the realtor and set to meet him at the property at ten the next morning.
“I had breakfast at a diner close to the hotel. The waitress knew about the property and gave me directions on how to get there. On the drive to the farm, I thought, should I dicker a little or pay them the asking price? I decided to offer about 10 percent less as a starting point.
I followed the instructions the waitress gave me. I almost passed it except for a for sale sign posted along the side of the road. Across from the sign was a dirt road that seemed to enter a wood area. I backed up slightly and made the left turn into the dirt road. I drove until I cleared the trees, and there was a farmhouse.
There was a car parked in front of the house. I assumed it was the realtor. “Mr. Simpson, I’m Brad Wilkins. I talked to you earlier about the possibility of you purchasing this farm.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Mr. Wilkins.”
Mr. Simpson showed me around the farm. The farmhouse was, according to him, a typical farmhouse. A large kitchen, large living room with a bedroom and bath off on one side. Stairwell to the top floor where there were three bedrooms and one bathroom. The basement contained a gas-fired furnace, water tank, and a hook up for a washer and dryer.
They had a septic tank, and the county provided electricity. There was a generator back up in the garage. The site included a barn, chicken coop, and a pen, which I suppose was for pigs. According to the listing, this was an active farm until the owners moved south to their son’s home. The livestock was sold off; however, the fields had been planted, and shortly they would need to be harvested.”
I liked the fact that the farm was a little isolated, “Could we walk the property line?”
From the look on Mr. Wilkins face he wasn’t too happy to grant my request.
We walked the property line, checked out the barn and the other out buildings, this property would be perfect for me once I installed a few improvements. I told Mr. Wilkins my offer, he said he’d need to check with the owners, “ I can arrange financing for you.”
“That won’t be necessary, this’ll be a cash deal. I’ll be staying at the hotel in town, you can reach me there.”
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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