Truth is, I never understood why my trade is illegal. All money is fake, right? It doesn’t represent anything except itself. I suppose what irked me most was that they called my stuff amateur. Amateur! I lived on those notes for years. Bank tellers routinely accepted them as genuine. But I was too proud of my work. I framed some of them. When the authorities came to my house they saw them on the wall. Who frames money? Only someone like me. It was my undoing. Where I am now, the bars and fences aren’t fake. They’re the real thing.
I’m a novelist, poet, and short story writer living in the Desert Southwest.
Search this site