For over God-knows-minutes Hoffers Greenfield stared agape. He barely could suck saliva down his guts. Our eyes locked and he winked for more than a thousand times, feeling as his knees trembled under his wealth.
With shaky, nervous hands he gestured at me, with doubt clouding his voice, “You? Brian Patrick.”
His sonorous tone deepened in anguish and impending peril. A closer look at him, one could notice his brow which was clustered with balls of sweat, “No! No!” His head protested with repeated shaking. “You can’t be serious.”
He stood up and each time he dared to speak I could sense tears in his voice. He surged closer to the photos and gave a surveyed look on both photos.
“No, the world richest man, this is you while the other is Brian Patrick.” His porcine, fallen face turned around and gazed upon me.” “You must be kidding me, huh.”
I smirked, let a brief grin across my cheeks and stood up, “Hoffers Greenfield, I am Brian Patrick, your god-forsaken poverty-stricken delivery boy. I am the same ridiculed underrated Brian Patrick, an ex-convict who was down-trodden….!”
Hoffers hurt blue eyes argued with me. “No, stop this expensive joke, you are Mike Don! You are the world richest man! Yes. You are the true heir to the multi-trillion Saint Don.” His jaw waggled within his face, ‘How …how,” he stuttered and returned his gaze upon my photos, surveying my resemblance with scowled face which drained off the color. “But I know Brian Patrick very well; huh… he was poverty-stricken and had nothing close to survival…”
I walked out of my confines, arms pocketed, gazed upon the photo in one moment of revelation. “I am Brian Patrick, Hoffers Greenfield. I am the Brian Patrick who ran to you in the middle of the night demanding that you give up your garage so that my father and I could pass the night.” I swirled around and flashed my strong featured face at him.
The man standing before me was caught up the gut. I could feel the tic on his face and I could tell his demand of getting swallowed into the ground was delayed otherwise he would have disappeared out of my sight.
He had an uneasy breathing which whistled through his nostrils and the balls of sweat on his brow was spreading to his cheeks and neck now. It was obvious Hoffers , was having needles in his veins over the awareness of my true identity.
“But how come you changed in looks over night. You don’t look anything close to poverty…”
I smirked and he swallowed hard, struggled to keep his gaze, “Have you forgotten what you told me when I wanted to save my foster father from the cold of the night? At the time, heavy rain was about to fall. I had come to you, my very boss for help, just for you to give up your garage for one night. You declined my demand, Hoffers. You preferred your exotic cars being parked in the garage to our lives…”
“But, but…Brian Patrick…I …” he stuttered and swallowed a dry lump as he could confirm that I was Brian Patrick. He wanted to protest yet further and I placed my hands on my lips for him to keep shut.
“Hoffers Greenfield , I don’t think you have ever slept in the rain! I don’t think you have ever watched your father throw up blood while drenching in the rain. Our properties were destroyed in the rain. Like homeless kittens, we endured the long lengthy days in the harsh winter…”
Hoffers had an uneasy breath as his drained blue eyes winked nervously with the intent to protest but he just couldn’t unseal those thick lips.
“You just have to keep shut, dope!” I slammed, sucked a deep grin across my face, shot my bleaching eyeballs at him, and he stilled and trembled within himself. Any careful observer could feel his blood chill over the awareness of my true identity.
“Hoffers you are just impossible. I was your delivery boy and nothing stops you from helping this poverty stricken boy. Yes nothing stops you from giving us shelter at your garage.” My gaze returned to the horrible photo on the wall, the photo of a ragged delivery boy who was once written off.
“What about the salary advance I asked for, huh?”
The next seconds I saw, Hoffers going down on his knees as his face went crimson. “Trust me when I say I couldn’t have given you a salary advance.”
“…Because you termed me poverty-stricken, huh!” I interrupted him abruptly and swallowed him with my thunderous eyes, “You never believed I would amount to somebody notable. You never spoke well of me. You seldom did. The salary advance could have given my mother another chance to live. At the time you were the savior I had. I ran to my boss for salary advance and you repelled me.”
He tossed his head in the negative and protested with his trembling hands which pled for mercy.
I forced a smile and simpered mockingly at this sweating figure kneeling before me. At the time his profuse sweating had mixed up with the warm tears trickling down his cheeks.
I swirled around, shot a stunning look on my recent photo, “I never knew I was the true heir to the saint don group…”
“I never did too…” Hoffers interrupted me through wailing.
“…Keep shut, you swine!” I shut him up, stamping my feet on the floor to drive on my wrath, “Enemies like you almost plunged me to commit suicide…” I chuckled evilly, “Uh-oh you thought I was going to end as a poor delivery boy, huh.” I shook my head in wonder before settling my furious, irritated eyes on him, “Thank God I was found.” I stretched to a news paper and tossed at his feet, “What is the headline there?” I queried through clenched jaw.
Hoffers stared down to it, raised a brow, and read; “The World Richest Man, Mike Don Leaps With Net Worth Of Five Hundred Trillion Dollars.” His voice broke out as he stared agape and lost in his gloom. “Oh my God. I got that wrong, Mike Don. I am sorry please have mercy on a poor CEO like me…”
“Uh oh, now you are poor, huh!”