Charg, Monster

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“FIVE million dollars.”

The man who uttered these words was seated behind a mahogany desk. His square-jawed face was domineering. His words were raspy as they came from curling, puffy lips. His eyes — almost glaring — were focused upon the man before them.

“I am not interested, Mr. Thorne.” The reply came in a positive tone. It was voiced by the man in front of the desk — a pale, bespectacled fellow who returned Thorne’s glare in owlish fashion. Yet there was a determination in the answer that brought a scowl to Thorne’s dark features.

“You are a fool!” The man behind the desk was harsh and outspoken. “You are deliberately destroying the greatest opportunity of your life. Here in this desk” — Thorne’s heavy fist clenched and pounded the woodwork — “I hold the contract, ready for your signature. One simple word of agreement — you, Meldon Fallow, will become a millionaire.”

“Like Frederick Thorne.” There was unveiled scorn in Fallow’s reply. His eyes, too, showed a glare.

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