It doesn’t take much to figure out the inspiration for this one.
I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of people who can tell the future and the implications of that, though nowadays I’d be satisified with assurances that there’s actually going to be a future.
F is for FORTUNE TELLER
The burly man wearing mirror shades and a sharp suit with an ominous bulge where a shoulder holster might be places a black valise on the desk in front of the psychic. The valise contains $50,000 in unmarked notes, all the money the psychic will need to spend the next five days in a luxury hotel with three $1,000 a night hookers, a blonde, a brunette and a redhead.
In return the psychic gives the burly man a plain brown envelope containing detailed predictions of stock market movements in the year ahead. If followed to the letter the information will make his employers wealthy beyond the dreams of Croesus.
Before leaving the burly man leans over the desk, his great fists resting on the wood like five pound hams, and stares hard into the psychic’s eyes. Voice thick with menace the man makes a prediction of his own, that if any of the information is wrong he will hunt the psychic down and make him wish that he’d never been born.
The psychic isn’t worried. His information has never been wrong before. And besides, the world is going to end on Friday.
Trumpetville 