Rodney slumped on a cold, graffiti-tagged bench at the bus stop—head in hands, backpack at his feet, the weight of a thousand quiet regrets pressing down on his shoulders. His eyes were dull, like a man who’d seen too much too young, and not enough to make sense of any of it.
Beside him sat an old man—pushing 90 if a day. White beard like a wandering prophet. Black overcoat. Polished shoes, but a scuffed cane. He didn’t look homeless. He didn’t look rich either. Just there—like he was waiting for something more than a bus.
“Rough day, son?” the old man asked, his voice like gravel smoothed by time.
Rodney sighed. “You could say that. Lost my job, my Tesla, Girlfriend’s gone. Rent’s due. Life’s a joke and I am the punchline.”
The old man turned. One eye caught the sunlight just right—it shimmered, cold and hollow.
“Tell me,” he said.
And Rodney did.
He spilled it all—his failed startup, the prototype stolen by slick suits, the dead-end job with no insurance, the dreams he’d buried to survive. He ranted about billionaires who stole and lied and still came out richer. He mentioned Icahn, devoured by a short-seller named Hindenburg. Go Wangui, exiled conman turned cult leader, facing 11 indictments. Trevor Milton, whose trucks couldn’t roll downhill unaided. Sergey Protosenya, rich beyond measure, found dead in a rented villa.
The old man nodded with each name, like flipping through a familiar ledger.
“I’ve met them,” he murmured.
Rodney paused. “You… know them?”
“Oh yes. They come to me. In their own time. I sit. I listen. And they give me what I need.”
Rodney blinked, uneasy. “What do you mean?”
“They offer their pain, their secrets, their fears. I take them. I always have.”
“You sound like a shrink.”
The old man chuckled, low and strange. “Not a shrink, dear boy. I give them what they want. They give me what I want.”
Rodney shifted on the bench, laughter catching in his throat. The wind had gone still.
“Everyone thinks billionaires have it all,” the old man continued. “But they’re hollow. Sleepless. Breathless. Hunted by the ghosts of those they climbed over to reach their towers. Smiling on CNBC. Screaming inside.”
Rodney shook his head. “Still. They’ve got money. Power. Jets. Girls. Mansions. I’d trade my problems for theirs any day.”
The old man leaned in, his gaze piercing. A chill ran up Rodney’s spine.
“That’s why I’m here,” the man whispered. “To make a deal. Tell me what you want—I’ll give it to you.”
Rodney laughed nervously. “Like a genie?”
“Something like that.”
Rodney grinned. “What’s it cost? Is there a menu or something?”
The old man smiled. “Ten million? That’ll cost you ten years. A billion? Thirty. Money and fame? Your soul.”
Rodney blinked. “You mean… you take the years off the end?”
“Something like that.”
“And all those guys—”
“They all made deals. Until they got what they wanted. Until they realized every private jet is a flying prison. Every billion a burden. Every ‘yes man’ a knife waiting for the right moment. Why do you think al these famous rich ended up dead in their mansions alone with no families and just their dogs. They always get their last wish. Did you think it was a coincidence?”
The old man’s voice grew softer, sadder.
“They’re sick, Rodney. Haunted by poverty that no longer exists. Possessed by hunger that no longer feeds. You can’t fill a broken soul with numbers.”
Rodney had no reply. Just silence.
Then—mercifully—the bus pulled up.
Rodney stood. The old man stayed seated.
“You getting on?” Rodney asked.
The old man smiled. “Not yet. Still waiting for someone.”
Rodney nodded and stepped onto the bus. As it pulled away, he glanced back.
The bench was empty.
That night, Rodney sat alone in his apartment, lights off, mind racing. He looked up the names—Icahn’s fall, Wangui’s fraud, fake hydrogen trucks, villas turned tombs. One by one, they checked out.
And he wondered—maybe the old man wasn’t lying. Maybe the real soul suckers didn’t wear horns and lurk in shadows. Maybe they wore suits. Sat on boards. Promised everything… and took all.
He poured himself a glass of tap water and sat by the window, watching the city breathe.
Maybe life wasn’t a joke. Maybe the punchline was this:
Life is simple.
Live it.
Live like a king—because every day you’re alive and free,
you’re already luckiest person in the world.
📘 An Afterword
No stray cats were harmed in the making of this story. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental—except maybe Rodney.
Rodney is a very smart young man at a crossroads, trying to decide his future. I dedicate this story to him.
Always remember who you are, and how lucky you are. There’s nothing wrong with that. Keep the good times rolling.
EXTRA CREDIT
So you want to be a Billionaire…
The Billionaire Next Door
Is Elon Musk Evil? – The Billionaire’s Paradox
So You Want to Change the World, Kid?
Too Smart to Get Rich?
Quirk of Fate
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