Bravo's Infamous Plan B.

I had known Bravo for about three months at the time. I was not yet sure where he received his income. It seemed that he continually pulled from some bottomless reservoir of funds, and although he indulged in (and seemed to enjoy) extravagances occasionally (usually while putting up a front during a con job), in actuality he lived modestly. We shared a small, three-bedroom condo, sparsely furnished, and filled with bookcases. Most were his; I owned a few.

I was flipping through one of his copies of Madame Bovary when he walked in. As usual, it was impossible to tell his mood. “We have a problem,” he said.

“Really,” I responded.

He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine. He thought for a moment, looked at me knowingly, and walked out again, the full glass still on the table. “I’ll be back.”

In an hour, he made good on his word. I had dozed off in a chair. When I fully awoke, he was in the kitchen. He had returned to his glass of wine.
“My patrons have pulled their funds.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just looked at him.

He picked up a slip of paper in his hand. “This is Plan B.” It was a lottery ticket.

“You’re crazy,” I said. “Do you know the odds of winning the lottery?”

He replied, “Do you know the odds of surviving a colossal squid attack?”

“No.”

“The odds are zero. It’s never been done. It can’t be done.” With that, he rolled up his left sleeve. There, just above the elbow, was a circular scar, about the size of the bottom of a coffee cup.

“A plastic surgeon took care of the rest. I left one as a reminder. A reminder that believing the odds is for suckers.”

At precisely ten o’clock that evening, he became a millionaire. At precisely 10:02, he went back to reading his book.

I didn't sleep for a week.