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Sanni Saed had no time for tears. His people had shed enough to fill up Lake Victoria, damn it. The fate of his nation hung in the balance. Would he be able to find someone in time? He didn’t know, damn it, he just didn’t know. He stared out the window into the sweltering, malarial night. Why, he thought, was everything so malarial? The percussion of explosions from the distance sent millions of tiny vibrations through his chalet, a relic of colonialism. He didn’t know if it was the bombs, or his fear that sent a shudder through his lean, totally hot Ibo physique. No time. Damn it. He returned to his desk where his black market UN desktop computer glowed on the desk. A buzzing of insects hovered in a black-cloud around its light. The email. He needed to finish the email. It was all they had left. “I write to you from a forsaken nation,” he typed, a crushing sense of urgency pressing down on his dark, rich Benetton colored shoulders. “I am the minister of Treasure and Finance of a proud African nation. Our beloved leader, King Oonga Boonga, has died, the victim of heartless rebel forces who intend to rape and plunder my beautiful nation of its resources for their own greed. Conditions are parlous, which is terribly similar to being perilous. But before he died, our lovely king managed to secure a sum of $95,500,000 (NINETY FIVE MILLION, FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND U.S DOLLAR ) in an hidden account in your country. Trusted officials in my bureau have been searching for a foreign partner who can stand in as the next of kin of the deceased as we cannot do it only ourselves and claim this money. I understand that this may pose a serious inconvenience to you and will agree to turning over 30% of the funds to your bank account for your help in this urgent matter…” Saed paused. What info would this good Samaritan need to provide? Bank account number, fax number, an address, and email address, and what else, what else! Hurry, damn it! Ah, yes of course, a social security number! He continued his furious typing. “If you can help please send this information so we can enable the above transaction and proceed with an APPLICATIION OF CLAIM. God willing we will speak soon. Regards, Sanni Saed, MTF, Nigeria.” Saed’s long, slender post-colonial finger lingered over the mouse. The explosions were closer now. The rebels were closing in. Damn it. He pushed send and turned his head skyward, firing a final prayer to the heavens before everything went dark. (Because his escape pod jettisoned into the air and hurtled through the night to an uncertain future, Etc.)

Date Written: February 06, 2006
Author: scoop
Average Vote: 4.5

02/6/2006 Litcube (4): Hah! Yeah! (I hope this is Jon Matza, though I don't think Jon Matza used damnit all that much. Perhaps Qualcomm does, though).
02/6/2006 Mr. Pony (3.5): I believe that this funny idea could have been pushed further.
02/6/2006 anonymous: You're just pissed off because your're not the only guy in the room with an escape pod, Pony.
02/7/2006 Litcube: Also, Scoop has been known to use damnit.
02/8/2006 Dylan Danko (5): This is totally gay.
04/26/2006 Master Bates (5): where do I sign?
06/1/2006 TheBuyer (5): check me out laying a fiver on this bad boy, i'm huge