Life had been a disaster since he found the pot of gold.
His wife had found out about his new found wealth, so he’d had to kill her.
He didn’t trust the kids anymore, the murderous little bastards were looking to inherit, so he’d cut them off.
The yacht and the supercar had been fun to start with, but the prostitutes and drugs and endless parties had become tiresome.
Now the Inland Revenue were pestering him, something about a treasure tax.
And the charities kept calling, begging bowls in hand.
If he could ever find that scrawny little leprechaun again, he’d wring his f—–g neck.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (more details HERE). The idea is to write a short story of 100 words based on the photo prompt (above).
To read stories of 100 words based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.
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