Scarecrow Gods by Weston Ochse Page A

score, but the root of the evil of the system is what they used to call one-upmanship . The old, I am better than you . Where do you think the term Little People came from? Some Swiftian Lilliputian ideal? Or maybe tiny winged fairies scampering among the flowers and squatting on toadstools? No. Of course not. The Little People are the downtrodden. The ones who are left behind. The ones without all the money. You know, those Poor Suckers .
    “Ah. Here we are. This is Mr. Plumpkin, Mr. Goldman, Mr. Hoffenbach and Mr. Adams.”
    Each man nodded in Ortega’s direction and returned to their game. Although haggard, their determination was evident. By the gnashing of their teeth and the hard lines of their jaws, one would imagine they were playing with real money. Then Ortega noticed the wrinkled green bills on the Monopoly board. He was shocked to see they were playing with real money. Stacks of crisp hundreds, tens, fives and ones were in front of each player.
    “They just joined our community this month. Mr. Plumpkin and Mr. Hoffenbach were both successful insurance salesmen. Mr. Adams, here, was a broker and Mr. Goldman was doing admirably well selling Corvettes in Las Vegas. Did you know that more Corvettes are sold in Las Vegas than any other city in the country?”
    “They’re playing with real money?”
    “That’s right. We figure that if they play with their own hard-earned cash, it makes them play harder.”
    “You mean that’s their money?” Ortega glanced over at the bank and ogled the mounds of cash. Stacks upon stacks of banded bills were on the adjacent table. He noticed the unshaven faces and the bloodshot eyes. The full ashtrays and the stained coffee cups. “How long have they been playing?”
    John glanced over at the redhead who held up a hand showing three fingers.
    “Three days and the playing is quite fierce as you witnessed earlier.”
    “Three days! But how? I mean the longest game of Monopoly I ever played was maybe three or four hours.”
    “Ah, but that’s regular Monopoly. Take a closer look, Agent Ortega. Our game is a bit different.”
    Ignoring the looks of irritation from the players, Ortega leaned in and invaded their space. The game was different. Where Go should have been were the words Tithe and below that were the words 10 Percent . Instead of collecting, they had to pay ten percent. Ten percent of what? Their cash?
    There were also no railroads. In their place were different pictures of church facades: Catholic, Muslim, Protestant and Jewish. As he watched, Mr. Adams landed his quaint metal wheelbarrow upon the Muslim space and shook his head, cursing under his breath. He counted out three hundred dollars and placed it in the middle of the board, which had an already impressive pile of cash. Ortega examined the square closely, but could see no other writing to indicate the amount to be paid.
    “How do they know how much to pay?”
    “They decide,” said John, spreading his arms and smiling. “The limit is three hundred dollars unless otherwise specified.”
    “What do you mean, they decide? Why not just pay a dollar then?”
    “If he wants to pay a dollar, then he can pay a dollar. No one cares.”
    “But that’s crazy.”
    “Do you think so?” asked John.
    Ortega forced his attention back to the board again. Mr. Goldman landed on Community Chest. There were eight of them, something else that set this version of Monopoly apart from the original. As he picked up his card, Ortega moved behind and read over his shoulder.
    Your ex-wife’s boyfriend is arrested for possession of a controlled substance. She calls you and asks to borrow ten thousand dollars for bail. Do you pay it?
    Mr. Goldman laid the card on the board for all to read. Grinning happily, he began counting out his cash.
    “Mr. Goldman?” asked John, “Is that what you’d really do or are you in maybe too much of a hurry to attain salvation?”
    “Sure. Sure,” said the man counting out the bills. He