10 Years Later
Creeeeeak!!
The barred gates slid open, followed by an announcement.
"Inmate 504, report to processing."
Loud and clear, the intercom sounded.
Cheers erupted as inmates all understood what that meant—someone was getting out, and none other than their favorite inmate: 504, Richard Auric, the man supposedly responsible for stealing from the World Bank.
A legend among thieves.
Allegedly!
Richard walked out of his cell, two guards waiting to escort him to processing.
His expression cheerful, a wide smile on his somewhat old face.
He had undergone a metamorphosis.
Prison life, which should have brought a man of his caliber down, had seemingly done more good than harm, for despite being over fifty, his under-eye bags were barely noticeable.
His hair and beard, slightly grayed, gave him a sage-like air.
His eyes were sharper than ever, his muscles lightly toned.
"Patrick, I'm taking my money when you get out of here!" he turned to a lean, fully tattooed inmate to his left, the latter responding with a rock-and-roll sign, his pierced tongue outstretched, long and creepy.
"…" he grimaced, turning away from him, his attention drawn to another inmate—a fatty who had his hand stretched out of the bars, ready for a high five.
Clap!!
Their palms clashed, a once-in-a-lifetime dab sounded in the hall.
"Hey, Buggy, try not to lose more weight!" he teased, Buggy only responding with the middle finger.
"Hahaha…" he only smiled, turning to another inmate.
"Red Eye, I hope I don't see you out there." He growled, feigning annoyance.
"Yeah, not for another ten years." Red Eye, the inmate with an eye patch, replied.
"Hahahahaha…" the inmates burst into laughter at their comrade's fate, their own no less better or worse than his.
"…"
"…"
"…"
As he crossed the hallway out of the cellblock, cheers and praises echoed behind him.
He had made a name for himself—his supposed crime granting him status before he even stepped inside.
He knew when to fight and when to surrender, when to talk and when to keep quiet, the many years working under people granting him such skills.
Using his wits, he kept himself safe in prison, promising wealth and rewards (which he didn't actually have) to lure more allies.
A honey tongue, they called him.
His ten-year stay had been smooth sailing—so smooth, he almost didn't want to leave.
He stopped at the gate to the cellblock, turning back to his fellow inmates, a look of reminiscence and longing in his eyes.
"Get out of here, man!!!"
"Legendary thief!!!"
"Legendary thief!!!"
They roared, slamming their palms against the bars, a farewell to the alleged legendary thief.
He never once confessed he was innocent, reinforcing his lies with techniques that were sure to work.
He lingered at the gate.
He didn't want to go.
Here, he was a king. But out there? Nothing. No home, no family, no job prospects—his life a complete trainwreck.
"Sigh…"
He shifted his gaze and finally stepped out, the guards right beside him.
The processing went smoothly, without a hitch.
"Inmate 504, Richard Auric."
With a loud thud, his release forms were stamped.
"You are free to go."
He only nodded, his head dropped. One might have expected relief, yet he only had a solemn look in his eyes.
Quietly, he was escorted to the gates—the ones that opened to his supposed freedom, freedom from a ten-year sentence, a sentence he did not deserve.
The gates opened, the wind rushing through—a bit cold, unlike the warm stale air of the prison gates. Yet to him, it felt like the winds of hell, the life after the gates one he knew not.
"Hahaha… so what now…" he could only laugh at his predicament.
As expected, no one waited for him. The people who'd put him here had long forgotten him, and he had no one.
Such was the life of a bachelor.
"So… where to now? I don't even have a penny for a cab."
His gaze locked on the horizon. He would walk and hope the hands of fate might aid him.
Dragging his feet, he walked down the road, sighing heavily as he thought about what to do.
Thoughts of revenge never crossed his mind.
Like a gazelle wounded by a lion, thoughts of revenge were suicidal.
He was a fifty-three-year-old ex-convict, and she was the daughter of the President of the World Bank.
There was no winning.
...
Beep!! Beep!! Beep!!
A dump truck slowly emptied its contents.
Ear-piercing metallic sounds reverberated across the field as the junk spilled out.
"Hey, new batch!" the driver called out, peeking his head out, addressing the many poorly dressed, dirty, and unkempt people behind the truck.
"Hurry and sort them out," he added, driving away and leaving the rest to them.
"Richie, there seems to be some good stuff here," a middle-aged woman adorned in what most would call rags called out to Richard, who was a few meters away, also sorting through the junk.
It had been three months since he was released from prison. By a stroke of luck or sheer tenacity, he had ended up as a hobo in a junkyard.
Life was hard, but at least he had a roof over his head—even if it was a makeshift tent—and food to eat from doing minimal labor.
"Yeah, this could be from the estate on the beachside," he replied cheerfully, a bright smile on his tired face.
"Ye… Ah!" The woman blushed, awkwardly turning back to her duties.
Her cheeks flushed beet red as she remembered what had transpired the night before between her and Richard—the smooth talker still living the bachelor life with all the perks, even as a hobo.
"Sigh, another day of sorting through the trash of the rich." His expression returned to one of exhaustion as he continued sorting through the piles.
Clink!!
"Clink?! …"
A crisp sound echoed in his ear as some of the piles shifted.
He turned toward it. The sound was distinct—one he could never mistake: the sound of pure gold.
"Gold, is this my lucky breakthrough?" Still hanging on to the thread of hope, his heart raced in excitement.
His eyes brightened as he quickly moved to the source of the noise.
A dull-looking Middle Eastern oil lamp.
"It looks like a genie lamp," he chuckled, remembering the numerous movies about the mythical genie.
Carefully, he picked it up. It was dull, but unmistakably gold.
"Seems I still have some good karma left," he smiled.
Hope had almost faded—he figured it would take ten more years before he could rejoin society.
Having saved up a little with each amount he gained from selling junk, his calculations estimated ten years before he could have enough to get back on his feet—a simple life in the countryside.
But now, the same life that had screwed him over had handed him an opportunity.
Though still bitter about what had happened, he was grateful.
Before anyone could question him about it, he quietly slipped away into the privacy of his makeshift tent.
"It's too dull," he muttered, bringing it closer to his face, his reflection extremely blurry.
He spat on it, using his dirty cloth to wipe it, trying to bring back its shine.
The lamp, seemingly reacting to his persistent rubbing, began vibrating violently, slipping from his grip, falling to the ground before he could stop it.
His heart sank, an unknown fear gripping him.
"What's going on?!" His breathing became haggard, his clothes soaked in cold sweat.
The lamp's vibration clearly supernatural.
The lamp's vibration stopped abruptly. The fear he felt subsided, the unknown pressure vanished.
He remained vigilant, his pupils still dilated as he stared at the lamp.
"A demon…" he thought.
Despite not being a superstitious person, the current situation demanded a change in perspective.
Slowly and carefully, he tried to crawl around the lamp and escape.
He moved, now just a few inches from the tent's opening—but at that moment, the lamp glowed.
Reddish-purple fumes began rising from the nozzle. The sudden fumes made him freeze as a thought emerged—one that felt almost childish.
If he thought it could be a demon, why couldn't it be something else?
"A genie?!..." he mused.
The idea of meeting a genie was far more enticing than the prospect of a demon—or simply lethal fumes.
His curiosity overshadowed his fear, as he stood, a few inches from the entrance of the tent, still vigilant yet expectant like a child in fantasy.
The fumes continued to rise, filling the tent.
Slowly and seemingly deliberate, it began to morph, converging into a humanoid figure.
Its lower half was translucent and ghostly, still linked to the lamp's nozzle, while its upper body took the form of a giant.
Long purple hair cascaded down its broad shoulders, and piercing red eyes stared directly at Richard, its skin reddish-purple, glittering under an unknown light.
It looked fierce and majestic, oozing with cosmic authority.
"I am the Jinn of Greed.
I hold the power of the cosmos in my hand.
As my master, you may dip your hands in the treasury of the cosmos.
You have three wishes.
Ask, and it shall be given.
Anything you desire, you shall receive."
Ethereal and commanding, the Jinn's voice resonated in both Richard's ears and his mind.
He stood there, mouth slightly open, eyes wide in shock—he was frightened, but the smile slowly forming on his lips betrayed his excitement.
His joy overshadowed any form of absurdity the situation called for.
"I struck gold."