She reminded me of a surprise kiss with pop rocks. All crackling energy and sweet delight— a fully realized execution of a half-conjured dream.

But this story isn’t about her. It’s really not a story at all. It’s the beginning of an obituary.

Francis St. James passed away at 4:37 a.m. and the world was poorer for it. Literally— the world had lost an expert currency crafter. Francis make money like Michelangelo made art. Some would argue that what Francis made was art.

The bills he’d craft had a certain ingénue— a subtle scent of clove in a pastry or the whisper of an intoxicating perfume. They were not bills to be crinkled or stuffed inside a chain wallet. These were bills for birthday presents and graduations— they had an aura of grandeur all to themselves.

Francis stood at an optimal head patting height. Which was a shame considering he would look at you with his slate grey stare and wordlessly communicate a long and painful death if you were to pat said head. Height proves to be an issue for many short men in the United States— but for Francis it proved an afterthought— if ever a thought at all. He focused on his art and the occasional high stakes game of croquet. Former presidents and lifelong senators were said to have queued to join his annual tournament. As it’s constantly reminded— power and wealth are often married together. With Francis— they were inseparable.

Francis took the hallowed words of Dylan Thomas to heart— because he did not go gentle into that good night.” The police found Francis staked to his wall. His intestines had been pulled out like ticker tape and the white shag rug that belonged to the eighties would soon belong to a dumpster fire. There are no suspects at this time— but authorities believe the cause of death to be self-inflicted.

In a completely unrelated incident, newly forged hundred dollar bills have been tracked to a American extremists camp outside of Caracas. No word on whether the designs had been missing from St. James residence.