Flash Fiction: The Money Pit

 J. P. Cubish loved money. He absolutely adored it.

Like something out of a cartoon, he had a vault built to contain cold cash; paper bills, coins, even a few assorted gold bars and bank notes. It was the centerpiece of his enormous mansion, and surrounded in clear plexiglass on all sides. It rose three stories high in the center of his home.

To top it all off, it even had a diving board outside the entry door over twenty feet above ground level, and only eight feet above the surface of the money pit. He never bothered counting it, nor would even truly swim into its depths; however, he very much enjoyed standing on that diving board and, in a blatant display of monetary vanity, grinning as he admired his wealth.

That is, until the one day that he was standing on his board, smoking an expensive cigar, and dropped the stogie into the pit. His eyes widened in abject horror as the lit butt ignited a bill. In the stale, warm, dry environment of the plexiglass money pit, the bills were quick to burn and ignite others.

Before long, the bills were folding up in ashes and smoke, as the fire spread, coins and gold shifting positions. Not wanting to see his money burn away, Cubish jumped in, shrieking wildly, seeking to snuff the flames. His fine clothes caught fire as well, and he badly twisted his ankle landing on coins that, unlike water, had no give. The diving board was out of reach. Nobody heard his screams of agony in the soundproof vault. He died in agony.

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