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I killed a man. His name was Noel Laurier. So says the ten dollar bill in my hand. I can’t actually remember what his name was, but the more I say it in my head, the more it fits. What does it matter anyway… he’s gone.

My money says what I want it to say. I force it to – I deface it. I write what I want. It’s my money, I should be allowed. My money, my messages. Some are hurtful, some are inspirational. Some can be interpreted as both. It all depends on the mindset of those who come in contact with my money. YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL one bill says, YOUR LOVED ONES ARE LYING TO YOU says another. Some people actually believe what they read. Like it’s a fucking fortune cookie sent to them by divine forces to help them change their life. How pitiful. YOU ARE OBLIVIOUS.

Sometimes I wish the bills would end up back in my hand and I could believe what was written on them. YOU ARE WORTHLESS. I hope I get a good one. LIAR.

What little I know about the man I killed is already in somebody else’s wallet. Sketchy details from the life of a man I do not know. A life to be envied, I’m sure - envied out of necessity. For my life is the bottom. I live alone because I have nothing of value to offer anyone else. I can’t afford to pay the rent because I keep giving my money away. Nobody will ever read what I write because they are too busy being materialistic. I have no job. I have no family. I have no skills. I had a dog, but it ran away. I tried religion, but it was far too shallow for my liking. Too much tit-for-tat. Do this, get this. Say this, don’t say that. Repent. Sin. Heaven, hell. What kind of salvation is that?

Save me, Jesus. Come down from your cross and write your gospel on a twenty. A gospel for an extra large pizza. Deal. Keep the change. THOU SHALT NOT KILL. We’re already dead, man, and whose fault is that? I should write that down. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD. Fifty bucks. beautiful. How will the cashier at the grocery store react to that?

“Well, the money makes a valid point..”

It certainly does. Money talks and people listen. My money moves mountains. It cracks foundations and it burns bridges. My money builds character and it makes people smile. My money breaks spirits, shatters hopes, dreams, relationships.

My money says that I killed a man. His name was Noel Laurier. The more I say that name, the more the man becomes a person. A victim. I stole his pen. Where’s the body, you ask? It’s here. With me, in this room. neither one of us is in a hurry to leave. His car is parked outside. Ohio plates. Business trip. I assume. His wallet is empty because I’ve already penned part of my confessional on his money. Seventy-six dollars, he had. All small bills. Makes more work for me, but like I said, neither one of us is in a hurry to leave.

Business trips are long, I think. I’ve never been on one. He shouldn’t be expected back too soon. (He shouldn’t be expected back at all.)

----

I don’t know why I still use banks to spread my money. I suppose it’s because they have such a high turnover rate with cash money, but it’s the hardest place for me to complete my task. Some tellers don’t notice or don’t care that there is writing on the currency. Some notice and ask why it’s there, who put it there, if I knew that it’s a crime to deface currency, if I’m free for dinner tonight, etc. A few of the crusty old hags will take the bill and keep it and have the gall to ask me for another bill. “bitch,” I think to myself. I’m pretty sure that she can’t do that, but I don’t care. I’ll write on another bill and go to another bank. I’ll kill her later.

Stores are better. Stores don’t care. Money is money. All we are to them are walking wallets, anyways. Stop N’ Go: A pack of gum; seventy-five cents. One dollar tender. I KILLED A MAN. No reaction. Mac’s Milk: a bag of chips and a coke; two fifty-five. Five dollar tender. HIS NAME WAS NOEL LAURIER. Nothing.

Ding - Cash sale. Ding - Cash sale. Ding - Cash sale.

A pint of beer; five twenty five. Ten dollar tender. NOBODY WILL MISS HIM. Keep the change.

Ding - Cash sale. Ding - Cash sale. Ding - Cash fucking sale.

I forgot how many bills I used, but I know it was a lot. Somewhere in the vicinity of three hundred dollars in various denominations. Something like that. Tens upon tens upon tens of stores, banks, bars and gas stations hold bits and pieces of what I want to say. They couldn’t trace it even if they wanted to. But I want them to. Perhaps I should’ve put more thought into it. Spread the word, but find it first. Ha. ASSHOLE.

---

I went out on a date once with a girl who lived three floors below me. We went to a posh seafood restaurant that I couldn’t afford. She had the lobster bisque, I had calamari. Paid cash. Left a twenty dollar tip. She saw that the twenty said PRETENTIOUS ASSHOLE on it. I don’t know how it got there, I swear. Money comes from all over. I never spoke to her again. She wasn’t worth it, anyways.

IDIOT.

I killed a man. His name was Noel Laurier. He was arrogant, selfish, ignorant, maladjusted, callous, distant, filled with hate, pitiful, worthless, bitter, forgotten. Nobody will miss him. His actions hurt. His words hurt. His intentions hurt. Noel Laurier is a monster – the devil incarnate. He is going to hell, and nobody is going to miss him. I have killed him because I cannot stand to see someone like this succeed where others fail. Destroy what others have built up so modestly.

These words, these truths are now circulating around the city, in and out of the hands of Joe Trucker and Sally Feminist and their two point five children. And nobody will piece it together. Noel Laurier will disappear forever, story untold and everyone will forget. BLISS.

I killed a man… and I fucking loved it.

Regards,
Noel Laurier

Description
I killed a man. His name was Noel Laurier. So says the ten dollar bill in my hand. I can’t actually remember what his name was, but the more I say it in my head, the more it fits. What does it matter anyway… he’s gone.

My money says what I want it to say. I force it to – I deface it. I write what I want. It’s my money, I should be allowed. My money, my messages. Some are hurtful, some are inspirational. Some can be interpreted as both. It all depends on the mindset of those who come in contact with my money. YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL one bill says, YOUR LOVED ONES ARE LYING TO YOU says another. Some people actually believe what they read. Like it’s a fucking fortune cookie sent to them by divine forces to help them change their life. How pitiful. YOU ARE OBLIVIOUS.

Sometimes I wish the bills would end up back in my hand and I could believe what was written on them. YOU ARE WORTHLESS. I hope I get a good one. LIAR.

What little I know about the man I killed is already in somebody else’s wallet. Sketchy details from the life of a man I do not know. A life to be envied, I’m sure - envied out of necessity. For my life is the bottom. I live alone because I have nothing of value to offer anyone else. I can’t afford to pay the rent because I keep giving my money away. Nobody will ever read what I write because they are too busy being materialistic. I have no job. I have no family. I have no skills. I had a dog, but it ran away. I tried religion, but it was far too shallow for my liking. Too much tit-for-tat. Do this, get this. Say this, don’t say that. Repent. Sin. Heaven, hell. What kind of salvation is that?

Save me, Jesus. Come down from your cross and write your gospel on a twenty. A gospel for an extra large pizza. Deal. Keep the change. THOU SHALT NOT KILL. We’re already dead, man, and whose fault is that? I should write that down. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD. Fifty bucks. beautiful. How will the cashier at the grocery store react to that?

“Well, the money makes a valid point..”

It certainly does. Money talks and people listen. My money moves mountains. It cracks foundations and it burns bridges. My money builds character and it makes people smile. My money breaks spirits, shatters hopes, dreams, relationships.

My money says that I killed a man. His name was Noel Laurier. The more I say that name, the more the man becomes a person. A victim. I stole his pen. Where’s the body, you ask? It’s here. With me, in this room. neither one of us is in a hurry to leave. His car is parked outside. Ohio plates. Business trip. I assume. His wallet is empty because I’ve already penned part of my confessional on his money. Seventy-six dollars, he had. All small bills. Makes more work for me, but like I said, neither one of us is in a hurry to leave.

Business trips are long, I think. I’ve never been on one. He shouldn’t be expected back too soon. (He shouldn’t be expected back at all.)

----

I don’t know why I still use banks to spread my money. I suppose it’s because they have such a high turnover rate with cash money, but it’s the hardest place for me to complete my task. Some tellers don’t notice or don’t care that there is writing on the currency. Some notice and ask why it’s there, who put it there, if I knew that it’s a crime to deface currency, if I’m free for dinner tonight, etc. A few of the crusty old hags will take the bill and keep it and have the gall to ask me for another bill. “bitch,” I think to myself. I’m pretty sure that she can’t do that, but I don’t care. I’ll write on another bill and go to another bank. I’ll kill her later.

Stores are better. Stores don’t care. Money is money. All we are to them are walking wallets, anyways. Stop N’ Go: A pack of gum; seventy-five cents. One dollar tender. I KILLED A MAN. No reaction. Mac’s Milk: a bag of chips and a coke; two fifty-five. Five dollar tender. HIS NAME WAS NOEL LAURIER. Nothing.

Ding - Cash sale. Ding - Cash sale. Ding - Cash sale.

A pint of beer; five twenty five. Ten dollar tender. NOBODY WILL MISS HIM. Keep the change.

Ding - Cash sale. Ding - Cash sale. Ding - Cash fucking sale.

I forgot how many bills I used, but I know it was a lot. Somewhere in the vicinity of three hundred dollars in various denominations. Something like that. Tens upon tens upon tens of stores, banks, bars and gas stations hold bits and pieces of what I want to say. They couldn’t trace it even if they wanted to. But I want them to. Perhaps I should’ve put more thought into it. Spread the word, but find it first. Ha. ASSHOLE.

---

I went out on a date once with a girl who lived three floors below me. We went to a posh seafood restaurant that I couldn’t afford. She had the lobster bisque, I had calamari. Paid cash. Left a twenty dollar tip. She saw that the twenty said PRETENTIOUS ASSHOLE on it. I don’t know how it got there, I swear. Money comes from all over. I never spoke to her again. She wasn’t worth it, anyways.

IDIOT.

I killed a man. His name was Noel Laurier. He was arrogant, selfish, ignorant, maladjusted, callous, distant, filled with hate, pitiful, worthless, bitter, forgotten. Nobody will miss him. His actions hurt. His words hurt. His intentions hurt. Noel Laurier is a monster – the devil incarnate. He is going to hell, and nobody is going to miss him. I have killed him because I cannot stand to see someone like this succeed where others fail. Destroy what others have built up so modestly.

These words, these truths are now circulating around the city, in and out of the hands of Joe Trucker and Sally Feminist and their two point five children. And nobody will piece it together. Noel Laurier will disappear forever, story untold and everyone will forget. BLISS.

I killed a man… and I fucking loved it.

Regards,
Noel Laurier