mason

His name is Mason and his job is overseeing the self-checkout aisles at the Stop-and-Shop at 8th and Green. He’d planned to be a rock star, but reality intervened – he couldn’t play guitar, much less keep a beat, and he sang like a pig getting stuck. He lives at home with his parents, in the far corner of the damp and dusky basement, with a pet ferret named Garret and a caged boa named Ralph. He drives a red, 1997 Chevy Impala that a former girlfriend nicknamed "Afterbirth." When he graduated high school two years ago he was voted “kid least likely to be voted for” on Jimmy Korn’s “MySpace” page. Korn was an ass, so he disregarded it, pretty much. The other 257 votes did bother him a bit, though, he had to admit. When he finishes his eight-hour shift at the self-checkout, he’ll head to his friend Moe’s house to sit around and maybe play three hours or so of “World of Warcraft,” then go home and eat dinner and end up downstairs, reading the graphic novel he pilfered from the library branch across from work. Tomorrow, he’ll buy a lottery ticket, just for the hell of it. And he will win -- $250 million. But he won’t know it. The prize will go unclaimed for five years. Then, one day, he’ll find the lotto ticket balled up in the bottom pocket of his cargo shorts and spend three months trying to see if it won. He does get his money. And, actually, that's where the story begins.