I store my wealth in specially-hollowed out wasps. Only I know which wasps they are. At the end of Wasp Season I put out a special jamjar.
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Only my wasps are attracted to the unique jam, made according to a recipe I keep inside the chrysalises of an unknown species of moth.
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The fruit that goes into this jam is a rare and difficult to cultivate variety of berry irresistible to hollowed-out wasps.
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I grow the berries in my secret laboratory, concealed inside a glacier, an hermetic space that only I know the combination to.
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Each number is tattooed upon the internal organs of people who fall asleep at airports by an ingenious keyhole surgical tattoo device based on the mosquito’s sting.
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No-one suspects they have become carriers of my secret codes. I preserve their names and addresses on a rock at the bottom of the ocean.
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I retrieve and reinscribe this rock by invisible bathysphere, a craft I attach to the hull of oblivious cargo vessels crossing over the site.
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Loose change I keep in cowfish, a coin per fish. Being by definition ‘loose’ I keep no record of where my change is at any given time.
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And yet, because the cowfish I have chosen love me, all I have to is waggle my hand in the water, and they will come and spit out coins.
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So strong is our telepathic bond, the cowfish always know exactly how much change I need. All I need do is be by the seaside…
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…beside the sea. So I’ve constructed glass tubes which channel seawater and therefore cowfish to all my loose change-requiring locations.
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Unfortunately, the expense of all these secure delivery systems has bankrupted me: all my wasps are empty and my cowfish carry no more change.
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Sometimes I lie out in the park all day, and let the empty wasps crawl all over my face and hands, stinging and stinging but without venom.
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At other times I bury myself in the sand and let the cowfish leap from the waves and struggle up the beach, their little yellow horns waggling…