The Day My $8.8 Million “Fake” Ticket Won Chapter 1

I hit the $8.8 million jackpot, but the lottery center refused to pay out.

“Fake!”

I was completely floored.

“No way! I just bought it yesterday. How can it be fake?”

The clerk looked annoyed.

“Still putting on a show? Don’t you know it’s fake yourself? Trying to scam money from the lottery center, you must be crazy for cash.”

A bad feeling started to creep in, and my heart hammered faster.

“If you can’t pay out, then give it back to me.”

The clerk scoffed.

“Give it back to you so you can go scam another place? Dream on. We’re confiscating this fake ticket. Cause any more trouble and I’ll call the police!”

With that, she signaled a security guard to escort me out.

I was furious, but also strangely thrilled!

She didn’t know I had severe paranoid personality disorder.

This exact scenario? I’d rehearsed it in my head at least three hundred times.

Before the security guard’s hand even touched my shoulder, I gracefully collapsed to the floor.

The floor was cold, a welcome chill against my burning forehead.

My name is Caleb Stone.

Naturally cautious, with a severe case of paranoid personality disorder.

Before leaving home, I check the gas valve three times. Crossing the street, even on a green light, I scan left and right four times for any out-of-control vehicles.

The moment I found out I won the jackpot last night, I locked myself in the bathroom and created a new file on my laptop: "Risk Assessment and Response Plan for an $8.8 Million Jackpot Win."

Branch One: Relatives asking for money and not paying it back.

Branch Two: Car accident on the way to collect the prize.

Branch Three: Lottery center refusing to pay out.

Branch Four: Kidnapped and held for ransom.

…

Branch Eighteen: Lottery ticket confiscated on the spot.

Right now, the plot was precisely at Branch Eighteen.

“Ow! Help! The lottery center security guard is assaulting me!”

I lay on the floor, my cries agonizingly shrill.

There were quite a few people around, waiting to buy tickets or collect small winnings. At the sound of the commotion, even those who didn’t want to get involved craned their necks instinctively.

The uniformed security guard was a big guy, his hand still suspended in mid-air, looking completely baffled.

He hadn’t even used any force; I’d just gone limp and collapsed.

“You’re lying! I didn’t even touch you!” the guard protested, flustered.

Cora, the female clerk behind the counter, stood up and pointed at me, shouting:

“Don’t believe him, everyone! This guy brought a fake lottery ticket to scam money, and when I exposed him, he started throwing a tantrum! Scammers these days will do anything for money, they have no shame!”

I clutched my chest, gasping for air.

“I’m not scamming anyone… that ticket… I bought it yesterday at the store on Construction Road… I have the receipt… I have the transaction record…”

Gasping, I fumbled for my phone in my pocket, my hands trembling like someone with Parkinson’s.

“If you’re not going to pay out… just give me back the ticket… it’s my ticket…”

The crowd began to murmur.

“Even if it’s fake, they shouldn’t push someone down, should they?”

“Yeah, just give the ticket back. What’s with confiscating it?”

“This young man looks honest, not like a scammer.”

“Are lottery centers really this shady now?”

Cora hadn’t expected me to pull this stunt, and her face darkened.

She probably thought I’d be like a greenhorn, arguing loudly or getting scared off by the security guard.

She underestimated the execution power of a paranoid individual.

To avoid being easily removed, I had deliberately worn a faded old T-shirt and worn-out sneakers, cultivating the image of an honest, downtrodden person.

“You… you stop playing dead!”

Cora started to panic.

“A fake ticket is a fake ticket! According to regulations, we have the right to confiscate it!”

“Which regulation?”

I suddenly stopped gasping and looked up, asking the question softly, but clearly.

Cora froze.

“Which law states that a merchant can unilaterally deem a customer’s item fake and confiscate it? Do you have judicial appraisal qualifications? Are you a law enforcement agency?”

My words came out in a rapid-fire torrent; I’d memorized this script all night.

A few elderly individuals in the crowd, who seemed to know a bit about law, immediately chimed in:

“Exactly, even fake money has to be handled by the bank. What right do you have to confiscate his lottery ticket?”

The tables had turned.

Cora bit her lip, glaring fiercely at me.

She knew that the security guard alone wouldn’t be enough to get rid of me now.

“Fine, you won’t leave, will you?”

She grabbed the desk phone receiver.

“I’m calling the manager right now. He’ll deal with you! You won’t believe it until it’s staring you in the face!”