If a coin can give you
information about Jefferson, then surely the other kind of currency with
his picture would be just as good. And a $2 bill is so rare, you might
just find the entire alien plot mapped out on a single bill. Yes, that
Jefferson was one sly fox, but as was the case with those slave kids of
his, the shameful truth will eventually be revealed. The question is,
where can you get your grimey mitts on one of those obsolete bills?
Better check the classified ads. Maybe you'll find some old coot selling
a bunch for collectors, and then you might find a job so you can earn
enough money to buy a $2 bill (ironically, it will probably cost you
more than two dollars). Ah, you love it when a plan comes together like
this. As luck would have it, you find a vendor giving away free copies
of the local paper at a nearby college campus. You grab one, and run off
before he can try to squeeze a subscription out of you with that damned
forked tongue of his!
As luck would have it, you don't find any mention of old people selling
old money. Yes, I know that's bad luck, but bad luck can have things,
too. It's in the Constitution! Anyway, neither are there any companies
looking for someone with your "unique" skill set. What you do find,
however, is a hole in the paper. You look through the hole as you read,
and you spot one of those cash-grabbing booths. You know, like a phone
booth, only they seal you up in it up and turn on a fan that blows bills
around inside, and you have to grab 'em. You've not sure what they're
called, and it's a cinch I don't know either. Thankfully, you don't need
to know what it's called to participate.
You step into the cash chamber, let's call it, and the MC seals you in
and tells the audience more about the used car dealer who paid for this
crass display. You scan the bills on the floor and before you can say,
"what's a $2 bill look like anyway?" you spot a $2 bill! No sooner do
you spot the bill than the air picks up and the grabbing begins.
You quickly lose sight
of the bill. Dammit, this is no time to be foil by excited air! Humanity
is counting on me, you arrogantly think to yourself. You flail about
wildly, grabbing fistfuls of money and banging your hands on the walls
of the chamber. You yell in pain, but struggle through it, continuing to
grab at anything and everything, and you transform into a whirlwind of
grabbing, banging, and yelling. The spectacle is enough to terrify the
crowd of onlookers, and everyone is relieved when your time is finally
up. You emerge from the chamber with hands so sore they've gone numb
from the pain, and you're not sure how much money you grabbed, but
you're sure it's a lot. You did grab a lot, but unfortunately, your
hands are so battered that you weren't able to maintain your grip. You
get a couple sympathy "aw's" from the crowd, but you still can't bring
yourself to do anything but hang your head in shame. In the course of
doing so, you spot a small corner of green sticking out from a fold in
your shirt.
It's the $2 bill! It
must've gotten caught whilst you were spazzing out. Lucky you. You race
off, eager to test the bill for alien secrets. The dark alley you're
crouched in isn't exactly as clean as your lab at home, or as scenic as
the mountain you were just on, but it'll have to do. You pull out the
vial of alien blood and dribble a few drops on Jefferson's smug, Jungle
Fever-ridden face and wait... Nothing. Absolutely nothing happens, no
matter how long you wait. You pour the rest of the blood on the bill,
but still nothing happens. Well, that stinks. No sense letting it get
you down, though. You carefully scrape as much of the blood off the bill
as you can and put it back in the test tube. Maybe you'll have better
luck if you check out the Jefferson Memorial.
Bus tickets cost more than two dollars, but still, at least you'll have
an opportunity to get rid of this nasty bill with its new film of jagged
orange blood. As you pay for the ticket, you try to put the smeared bill
in between two others to hide the stain, but the cashier sees it, and
recoils in horror. Oh great, you mumble, a neat freak.
"Oh my god, it's a chemical weapons attack!"
That declaration causes a bit of a ruckus at the semi-crowded bus
station. People start running about frantically, and out of the crowd
steps a couple of large men in DHS uniforms.
"This guy's got anthrax! Get him!!"
"No no, it's not anthrax, it's just a blocky liquid."
"He's got chunky peanut butter and I'm allergic! Get him!!"
Well they do get you. You're confident that you'll be able to better
defend yourself at the trial, but a burlap sack over your head and a
plane ride to Guantanamo Bay are as close as you get to a trial. You and
the other "enemy combatants" will probably get your day in court
eventually. Until then, all you have to look forward to are prison food,
interrogations, and an occasional visit from Bill O'Reilly.
