“Ain’t worth shit,” the pawnbroker tells me, ogling the ring with disdain.
It’s a big blow. I need the money.
“My grandmother bequeathed it to me,” I plead.
“Then she bequeathed you a piece of junk. See this? Lead. And this? Glass. Worthless.”
He bounces the ring across the counter and gives me an annoyed look.
“Got anything else?”
I search my pockets , desperately trying to find something worthwhile but all I come up with is lint. The pawnbroker is already diverting his attention elsewhere, when I play my trump card.
“How about my liver?”
I’ve got his attention now.
“Don’t be daft,” he snarks.
So I show him the morning paper. The headline reads: ‘Liver donors at an all-time low’. The pawnbroker is clearly intrigued now.
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“I need the money. How much would my liver fetch?”
The pawnbroker gives me the up and down.
He scurries off to the back room to make a call. I catch parts of it, but most of his conversation remains muffled. All I can definitely make out is that he is taking my offer seriously.
“I can offer you seven thousand,” he says when he returns, and that’s all he says.
“I’m 27 and haven’t drunk a drop of alcohol in my life,” I raise.
“Seven thousand. It’s that or nothing,” he calls my bluff.
He leaves me no choice. We shake hands.
“So when does the surgeon arrive?” I ask. “I was hoping to take a punt at the 3:15 at Chepstow.”
“You’re in luck,” the pawnbroker tells me, digging up a steak knife from under the counter. “He’s already in.”
Did you enjoy this story? Then why not try the 101 stories in 300 words or less in YOU’RE GETTING SLEEPY, THE HYPNOTIST’S APPRENTICE YAWNED.