Prologue

“Argh! It just doesn’t work!” roared a man in despair, to nobody in particular.

With such fury, he crumpled up a piece of paper with a bunch of seemingly random numbers and lines written all over it, and threw it over his shoulder in disgust. It soared through the air on a well-traveled path, and landed next to a trash bin holding more than it was designed for. With a pencil in his mouth, which was almost chewed through completely, he gazed at his scarred up desk with frustration. He then brought his forehead to the desk with a large crash, a usual practice of his when things become too much.

“Nothing! Nothing works! And anything that does work, has already been done!” he shouted again, rubbing his throbbing forehead, and spitting out the now broken pencil.

There really wasn’t anybody to shout at. He was the only one living in that small room that he called his apartment. It wasn’t really pleasant within that room. A musty scent hung in the air that would remind people of a nursing home, thanks to the dust and mold growing everywhere. If you were to take a step, it would have been followed quickly by the quiet sound of the crumpling of paper. Once in a while, the sound of crumpling paper would be replaced with the large crunch of an empty, disposable food container. The walls were stained with liquids of varying shades of colors, the result of failed ideas to be sent to businessmen as investment ideas. It was quite dim in the room as well, lit only by the sunlight streaming weakly through the curtains. There was a lamp on his desk, but the man didn’t bother turning it on. After all, the bulb was blackened, and burnt out.

With a great sigh, the man sat up. He looked to his right, where a tattered calendar hung on the wall, stained with who-knows-what. On it, were several images of cats, one for each month. The cats all had a look on their faces that looked like they were thinking “Really? You’re going to put me in this dumb dress, and then take a picture of it? If I could reach you, I’d scratch your face right now…” On the calendar, in pencil, February 23rd was circled. That was the man’s deadline to pay-back the loans he owed to his “investors” from his previous escapade. He had no money to pay them back, and the due date was just two days away.

“Well…Maybe I could sell my apartment? I could pay off a very small percentage of my debt, enough to push them back for a while…” the poor man thought desperately. He wondered how hard it was to live within a cardboard box, and thought it would probably be just the same quality of life as of now.

Though, it’d probably be the same quality of life, the man didn’t want to live in a box. It’d probably be leakier, and it would get pretty cramped at points. That was bad, since he was very claustrophobic. So, it was back to his desk again, frantically scrambling to find a new pencil, so he can create a new get rich quick plan.

“I will make money, even if it’s the last thing I do… On my honor of being a Bulbmyn.” muttered the man under his breath as he wrote, calculating how much money he would need to get the supplies he needed for his last ditch plan.

See, this man is called John D. Bulbmyn, the son of one of the richest families in the city he lived. Though he’s a Bulbmyn, the family name’s been forgotten. His family had gone bankrupt earlier, thanks to the recent recession. He was taught at an early age that wealth was power, and the fact his family went bankrupt, he was disowned from his family as a way to cut expenses, and deep debt was making him suffer, strengthened that fact. However, that name had no meaning to anyone, other than him. So let’s call him by what he’s more commonly referred to…

There was a sudden, loud, rapping knock at the door, and the man almost fell out of his rickety chair in surprise. He wasn’t expecting anyone to be visiting, especially at this hour. The few people that he knew would usually be at work this early in the afternoon. He picked up some trash off of the dusty floor, and tossed it into the small trash bin in the corner that stood next to his cot. Most of it ended up on the floor again, since the bin was already overflowing before he added more to it.

Unlocking the dead bolt with a small clank, he opened the door with a rattle, leaving the chain still on. He peeked outside, and his heart dropped with a splash, right into his stomach. Outside, was a face he was hoping he wouldn’t see for the next two days.

“Yo, Dim-Bulb. I just dropped in to check-up on you.” Said a porky, balding man wearing a clean linen suit. “You got the money ready for the collection date?”

“Y-yeah, yeah. I definitely have it.” The man lied nervously. “Just… making sure I have the right amount, and nothing’s missing…”

“Good. Just remember, if you don’t got it, the boss ain’t gonna be too happy wit’ you. And ya know what the boss does to those he ain’t happy wit’.” The other, fatter man said, glaring through the crack in the door. Pounding a brass knuckle into his palm, he then turned and left. A few minutes later, the man could be heard moaning about how he shouldn’t have pounded so hard into his hand. Then, the man was left alone in silence again.

Closing the door, he sank to his knees. Then, weakly pounding it, on the verge of tears, he cursed at his misfortune, and his stupidity. The man knew that getting money to fund his ideas from the local gang-lords was the worst decision of his life, but at the time, he was extremely desperate. There was nobody to turn to for help, and he had an empty wallet in his pocket. The moment he had been disowned, his ‘friends’ had abandoned him, wanting nothing to do with “a poor, pathetic commoner.” He was homeless, starving, and miserable.
Now, Dim was in bigger trouble then when he was starving to death. Not only is the gang threatening to rough him up if he doesn’t pay them back, they would put him in the hospital and pay for it until he got better. Not out of compassion, but because dead people don’t pay off loans. They also nicknamed him Dim-Bulb. The name wasn’t even that creative, seeing that his last name was ‘Bulbmyn’. But they called him that for the sole fact that he was “dim” and he always made a stupid mistake to mess up any business plan he created. The name stopped stinging him after he messed up a plan for the fourth or fifth time..

Dejectedly, he shuffled back to his desk, and just stared blankly at its surface. He then started to trace the scratches all over it, made from accidental gouging. A knife really does slip easily when one is trying to trim a solid block of wood, he found out, since the desk was previously owned by an amateur wood carver. He got it from one of the piles of garbage, collecting in front of his neighbors’ houses.

“I wonder…will I ever escape this horrible life? Can I even be happy?” Dim thought, with great sadness. “Maybe if I had a little more money, I could pay off these debts, find a nice house, and even find a nice lady. But, I gotta pay off this loan first…”

He put his head on his desk again, and sighed. Suddenly, his chest started hurting badly. At first he thought it was gas, and started to get up to head to the bathroom. However, his legs wouldn’t move, and they felt numb. The numbness was slowly creeping up his leg, up to his thigh. At that moment, Dim knew he was having a heart attack. He was about to quickly drag himself to the phone to call 911, but he just remembered that his phone line was cut recently, due to lack of payment. Again.

“Great…I’m going to die. I’m twenty-three years old, and I’m going to die of a heart attack… Damn the creators of microwave dinners!” And then, as the numbness reached his chest, he blacked out.