“Rule number five—”
“How many rules are there?” I rap my nails on the counter.
“Ten. Number six: Place the bottle somewhere with sunlight or moonlight.”
“What would be the reason for that rule? There has to be one.”
“Maybe it’s to make the whole process feel magical,” she guesses. “Listen to this next one. Ready? Rule seven: follow the damned rules.”
I scoff. “Okay, we got it. Jeez.”
“Eight: Your wish must be for you and you alone. No one else may be directly involved or impacted by your wish. To do so is a disruption of the lives of others and will not be permitted. SEE LIMITATIONS section.”
“Well, that rules out anything I’d ask for,” I say.
“Why?” Olivia asks.
“Never mind. Keep going.”
She toggles her head. “Nine: No wish can contradict the natural order. Note: this means no superpowers, including invisibility, time travel, or shooting laser beams from your eyes. No undoing events that have already occurred, changing into animals, becoming young again, being smarter than you already are, changing bodies, owning the planet, stealing someone else’s patents so that you can be Bill Gates, etc. SEE LIMITATIONS section.”
I frown. “Why does this sound like you wrote it?” Seriously, it reads like a disclaimer for a sweepstakes.
“It kinda does,” Olivia agrees. “And note how Mr. Wish has eliminated anything that would grant you world domination.”
“I hate it already.” I could do big things if I were the supreme leader of planet Earth. “What’s number ten?”
Her eyes move quickly from side to side. “Hmmm. Interesting.”
“What?” This is actually kind of exciting.
“Says that if you wish for cash, the maximum is five million US dollars.”
That’s weird. “Why?”
“Hold on. There’s an asterisk.” She reads silently and chuckles.
“Well?” I push.
“Basically, it says that if you wish for more than that, it makes you a greedy fucker because the wish is supposed to be for you and you alone, and no one needs more than five million dollars to live a happy life. Also, it’s prohibited to share your money with anyone, though upon your death, you may pass along any leftovers to a family member of your choosing.”
Okay… “Anything else?”
“Yeah, a bunch of stuff, but this one is particularly interesting: Any cash paid out as part of the wish is net of taxes, paid by Mr. Wish, Inc., so that the recipient is in compliance with all IRS tax codes, but receives the full amount.”
They gross up the wish? How thoughtful. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Doubtful,” Vi replies.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
She holds up a finger and is silent for several minutes. I assume she’s reading the rest of the fine print.
Finally, she looks up at me. “Yep. There’s way too much legalese and disclaimers in these footnotes for this to be a hoax. Someone used lawyers and put a lot of thought into the fine print.”
“So you think this is real? He’s really giving out wishes?” How exciting! And I suppose it’s not unheard of. There are several organizations that do it, though they’re generally for the terminally ill, which I’m not. Unless he knows something I don’t?
“I think this is real, Ginnie,” she says. “I heard about this guy in France, some multimillionaire without any heirs, who found out he had a brain tumor. He decided to spend the last three months of his life giving his money away to complete strangers.”
“That’s actually kind of sweet.” But also sad. Is Mr. Wish dying? God, I hope not. It would put a big gray cloud over this whole thing.
“Yeah, well, it was sweet, but before the guy could give it all away, some asshole tried to sue him for the entire fortune.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” I ask.
“He claimed that the man had promised him a ‘great deal of money,’ but when the millionaire found out that the dude had recently beat up his girlfriend, the rich guy withdrew the offer. Lady Beater sued because he claimed to have a drug addiction and the millionaire discriminated against him.”
I wince. “Please tell me that Lady Beater lost the court case.”
“Yes, but only because the rich guy—Emiliano something—died before the trial, and French law states if there’s no will or next of kin, which there wasn’t, the assets go to the state. Basically, the government told him to fuck off.”
“So the asshole would have won if the rich guy hadn’t died?”
“Who knows? Point is, there’s a very firm withdrawal clause in the fine print. Mr. Wish can rescind any offer—verbal or otherwise—at any time for any reason he sees fit.”
“Sounds very cautious for a magical genie,” I say.
“Exactly.”
Now, more than ever, I’m finding this wish man intriguing.
Why is he doing all this? TBD.
Who is he really? TBD.
Intimidating and intrusive? Yes.
Rich? Very likely.
Brutally handsome? Absolutely.
Positively insane?
I’m about to declare it a solid yes, but then Vi’s story rolls around in my head. What if Mr. Wish isn’t crazy at all? What if he’s like that French millionaire who was terminally ill? My heart sinks at the thought. Poor guy. It would explain a lot. For example, why he’s so pushy and pissy. Like he doesn’t have time to lose and maybe doesn’t feel well.