The Million Dollar Murder Plan

The million-dollar murder plan: What happens when a million-dollar fortune faces a clash of wills?

(It didn't go as planned. I invited Philemon over for dinner, and he accepted, just as I had hoped. I watched him stuff his face with the food I ordered from a nearby restaurant while he told me about his poor background. Watching him eat weakened my resolve, and I began to have second thoughts. Were the murder and subsequent guilt worth a lifetime of money?

Excusing myself, I silently slipped into the kitchen and retrieved the knife as I had planned. Philemon must have sensed my murderous intentions from the gleam in my eyes or my stance as I approached him. He backed away, screaming in terror, but I didn't worry about the neighbors since the generators were on blast. He threw a chair at me, catching me off balance, and tried to wrestle the knife away. I was surprised by his strength as he knocked the knife away and started running.

I tripped him and picked him up, but he threw a feeble punch which I deflected. I retaliated with a right hook to his face, and he fell to the floor. The back of his head hit the concrete with so much force that it made a loud crack. His head opened up like a melon, and blood spurted out, creating a pool around his head and staining the nearby rug. I froze. It was done. I had committed my first murder.)

Now, let me tell you how I heard the story straight from the horse's mouth. You may choose not to believe, and I'll understand. I found it hard to believe myself. Well, it is an unbelievable story. We never knew where he came from or what he was in for, but the inmates of Block C and Cell 243 were blessed with a new inmate that cold winter morning. None of us knew his name; we simply did not give him the privilege of existing in our world. He was an outcast, and I felt pity for him. I'm a sucker, I know, but one morning during our time out in the yard, I had my newspaper, and I was glancing through it when he sat opposite me: tall, dark, and with glasses, one of those rich kids who expected their moms to hold their hands through their time in the slammer.

"It was that bloody trust fund!" he said. I asked him to repeat himself, and he said it was the trust fund. "If not for Dad's fucking legacy, I wouldn't be here," he said. I simply nodded and continued reading; I had seen a lot of yahoos who were sick in the head and found every opportunity to try to convince others they were innocent. And then he said, "It was one million dollars," looking at me to see if I had picked an interest. Boy, oh, boy!! Was I interested? He asked if I wanted to hear a story, and I nodded again, folding my newspaper, and he began.

"It was the trust fund, one million dollars on my twenty-first birthday. See, Dad was filthy rich, not the type of people you see on TV; rich he was the behind-the-scenes rich guy, but the trust fund money came with rules. If I was arrested before the age of 21, and if I failed or repeated a school year, I wouldn't get the money, and that was where the problem began because I was a wild one, and I partied and frequently got into trouble.

See, I had just gained admission to the faculty of law, with the connection of Daddy, of course. Beth, my girlfriend, was pregnant, and my allowance couldn't provide for the two of us, plus the incoming baby we decided to keep. The good news was that I turned 21 in some months, and I had managed to stay clear of trouble so far. But the bad news was I was definitely going to fail and repeat this semester. And I couldn't let that happen and risk losing the money I've dreamt of all my life. I wanted a house of my own and a car for myself. I just wanted to get out of Mom's nagging sight, and now I risked losing everything.

I've always liked the thought of murder, the feeling of domination, power over life, and taking whatever I wanted, however, I wanted it. That was why the seed of murder was planted in my mind. We were at the canteen, and I was brooding about money issues as well when Ernest, my ever-chatty friend, said, "You know if a student dies during examinations, all the other students get a free pass, right?" I looked up from my food and asked where he had heard such nonsense, and he said it was a fact, which James, another friend present, confirmed. "Man, what I would do now to get a free pass in these exams without reading," Ernest thought aloud. And there, at that moment, the seed was planted, and it grew rapidly. When we closed and went home from school, I began to think and make out plans. I even listed the names of my classmates, five of them, who, if I could, I would kill to get good grades. Take Philemon, for example, the nerd, shy and introverted fool. Nobody would miss him if he were to meet with an accident. Mind you, that was how I thought of it then, not cold-blooded murder, just an accident," he paused and asked if I understood, and I said I did.

Before he could continue his story, the alarm sounded, and we had to return to our cells. That night, I lay in my bed in the cell, wondering what had happened to Philemon. Did he kill someone? What happened to the million-dollar fortune? Many questions I would ask him the next day, but I never saw him again till I got out of the slammer to hear the end of the story. But, phew, I understand. I would do a lot to get my hands on one million dollars.


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