There’s little difference between the gaze of my admirers and the gaze of my enemies.
I am master of the game, a 19-time free market champion, the Scotty dog on top of the world.
I’ve bought and sold more real estate than any other pewter dog has ever dreamed of. I’ve had my way with the thimble and the iron and that saucy top hat.
My opponents stare me down but my gaze is singular, my focus fixed on the next acquisition.
I retire in the evenings to a bed of bills — a thick, stack of pink and orange that smells of success.
There will come a time, the roadster warned, when the dice will roll against me. I laughed in his face and drove him to my last metal vet appointment.
It’s luck, only luck, the other jealous tokens crow. But I’ve proven my skill: trampled a battleship and bankrupted a wheelbarrow. I’ve passed “Go” more times than you’ve kissed your mother.
I’ll retire when the time comes, cash in my interest in the railroads and make a new home somewhere modest — Marvin Gardens, perhaps, Pacific Avenue.
But until then, I am the terrier, lord of the board.
And your rent is due.
Front page image by Anita Carril.
GHOST WRITER is a project by Tracy Danger Mumford. New sections are released every other Sunday. If you’d like to receive email alerts—and that’s all you’ll get, a short email—saying the new one’s up, sign up here: