As a dignified man, I only used a portion of the money Andrea gave me to buy some instant, shame-coated food. The rest, I transferred directly to Doug with a message that read: "A man of my word."
He didn't respond.
Thank God.
Doug has a mouth like a war crime and a talent for stringing obscenities together like he's composing jazz. The money only covered one month's rent, which barely scratched the surface of my debt, but it bought me silence. Temporary, blessed silence.
It also made me think… if I took on Andrea's editing gigs regularly, maybe I could claw my way out of this mess. Rent by rent. Moan by moan.
But I wasn't delusional. Andrea only offered that gig out of kindness. Or pity. Or as compensation for the full-sensory trauma of nearly becoming her co-star. She had her setup dialed in—lighting, framing, self-direction. She didn't need an editor. She just wanted to help, once. And now that help was spent.
So I stared at my laptop, waiting for something—anything—to change.
A job reply. A sign from above. An earthquake that would swallow me whole.
Instead, my eyes landed on the email I ignored yesterday. Still sitting there. Unopened. Just vibing in my inbox like a bad omen wrapped in Comic Sans.
Normally I delete those on sight. I've had enough scams to know the routine. But for some reason—maybe because I was full of salt-flavored noodles and momentary optimism—I clicked.
Subject line: URGENT: HELP NEEDED FROM PRINCE LUCIEN OF BLECH.
I squinted at it.
"Prince Lucien of… Blech??"
Was that even a real place? It sounded like a throat noise. Or a fake IKEA product. They didn't even bother with the effort to scam someone.
Either way, I had time. Doug had been momentarily pacified with a rent-sized painkiller. I figured I could spare a few seconds to laugh at whatever digital hallucination this was.
So I opened the email.
And that was the moment everything started to fall apart. Or come together.
Hard to say, really.
It looked fake. It smelled fake. But it had a certain flair—like whoever wrote it was either fully delusional or dangerously good at improvisation.
Still. I wasn't about to get catfished into wiring my non-existent fortune to a made-up kingdom that sounded like a digestive sound.
I opened a new tab.
Google: "Where is Blech?"
No real results. Just some Reddit thread where people were arguing whether it was a typo for Belch,Bleck, or Belgium.
Next search:
"Is Blech a country or an intestinal condition?"
No help. Apparently, it was also the name of a Norwegian metal band and a discontinued German soup brand. Promising.
I tried again.
"What happens if you reply to a prince scam email?"
First result: "You die." Second result: "They steal your identity, your soul, and your dog." Third result: "You end up in prison in Dubai. Don't ask how."
Great.
And yet… I clicked back to the email anyway. Curiosity may kill the cat, but in my case, it just made rent slightly more terrifying.
I opened it.
From: Lucien D. Ivarelle
Subject: URGENT: HELP NEEDED FROM PRINCE LUCIEN OF BLECH.
Dear Esteemed Mr. Reed A. Mercer,
I hope this message finds you in good health and noble spirit. I am Prince Lucien of Blech, third son of His Majesty King Arthelion IV, ruler of our beloved southern kingdom. Due to sudden unrest in our region and the freezing of international accounts connected to the royal treasury, I am currently unable to access my family's fortune.
I am seeking a trusted foreign partner to assist in securing and transferring a sum of $9.2 million USD held in a discreet offshore account. For your honorable aid and absolute confidentiality, you will be generously compensated with 30% of the total amount, alongside official recognition by the Kingdom of Blech.
I humbly ask that you reply at your earliest convenience. This matter is urgent, and I have been advised to contact only individuals with discerning intelligence and trustworthiness. You were personally selected.
With deepest regards and royal respect,Lucien D. Ivarelle Prince of Blech, Diplomatic Residence – Undisclosed
(Please do not share the contents of this email. This is a private correspondence of utmost delicacy.)
I stared at it for a long time. Thirty percent of nine million.
I did the math. Twice. I didn't trust myself with numbers at this level of stupidity.
Still, one thought cut through the madness like a knife through overcooked noodles:
"You were personally selected."
I stood up so abruptly my chair groaned in protest behind me. I started pacing. Not the thoughtful kind. The kind that says, "Yes, I am having a crisis and no, I will not be seated for it."
I passed the kitchen counter. Back to the couch. Around the coffee table. Tapped the window. Turned around. Did it all again. Over and over, like my brain was buffering through stupidity in real time.
"I was personally selected," I muttered aloud, like some cursed mantra. "By a prince. From the royal house of Blech."
I threw my hands up toward the ceiling. "Oh, thank you, divine universe, for sending me this royal opportunity, this golden ticket wrapped in Comic Sans and delusion. I've always dreamed of serving the monarchy of a fictional micro-nation that sounds like it was named mid-sneeze."
I paced faster, arms flailing like I was conducting an orchestra made entirely of bad life choices.
"Do people actually fall for this crap? Like genuinely? Is this how far we've come? From the Renaissance to Prince Lucien of Blech? Is this what the printing press died for?"
I pressed both palms to my face and let out a long sigh into the void.
Still, something about it lingered. Not the promise of nine million dollars—that obviously came with an asterisk and a federal investigation—but the sheer confidence of it. The unflinching, ridiculous audacity.
At least try to lie well. Craft the fantasy. Give me mystique. Give me Velveros or The Sovereign State of Eltheria. Don't name your country after a throat noise.
That was it. I stormed back to the laptop, cracked my knuckles, and began to type:
To: Lucien D. Ivarelle
Subject: RE: Business Proposal (Confidential)
Dear His Royal Highness Lucien of Blech (seriously),
Thank you so much for this utterly realistic and not-at-all fabricated opportunity. Truly, I am honored to be personally selected from what I can only assume is a vast database of broke idiots with email addresses.
Just a quick note from someone with two brain cells left to rub together: if you're going to scam people, maybe put five seconds more effort into naming your imaginary country. "Blech"? Really? That's the sound someone makes when they gag. Which, coincidentally, is also what I did while reading your email.
The fake inheritance? The frozen treasury? The urgent tone? Vintage. Nostalgic, even. It's giving the 2003 Hotmail chain letter, and I respect the commitment to the classics. But next time, maybe use a spellchecker. Or a shred of dignity.
Wishing you all the best in your deeply fake, possibly malware-infested kingdom. If you actually are a prince, kindly go f*ck yourself with a scepter.
Warmest regards, A man with nothing to lose (but still, miraculously, self-respect)
Reed A. Mercer
I hit send. Mostly for the fun of it. Mostly because I had nothing better to do. And maybe—just maybe—because I needed to believe something, anything, might actually happen.
Even if it came from a man with a made-up title and a suspicious fondness for formal punctuation.
The reply came faster than I expected.
Less than an hour later, as I was mid-noodle, chewing my dinner with the dead eyes of someone who just edited a woman seductively applying lotion to her kneecaps, my inbox pinged.
From: Lucien D. Ivarelle
Subject: RE: Your Trust is Appreciated
Dearest Reed,
I must say—your message was delightfully refreshing. Rarely does one respond to royalty with such candor, wit, and a healthy dose of existential sarcasm. I rather enjoyed it.
I understand your skepticism, truly. The digital world is a treacherous place, full of deceit and disappointment. But I assure you, I am no fraud. I am simply… a man caught in extraordinary circumstances, looking for a clever ally with nothing left to lose. It seems we may have found each other at just the right time.
As such, I would be honored if you agreed to meet me in person.
I am currently residing in my family's estate—affectionately referred to as "the castle," though I promise it is not nearly as pretentious as it sounds. I believe a conversation face-to-face would put your mind at ease far better than any digital correspondence.
I will send a car to pick you up. You need only provide your address and a time that suits you. If, for your own peace of mind, you would prefer not to come alone, you are welcome to bring company. Up to five individuals, if you'd like. I find transparency eases tension.
I hope this does not alarm you—it is not meant to. Consider it a gesture of respect for your safety and comfort.
Looking forward to your reply. I do believe we could do something quite remarkable together.
Yours in confidence and curiosity,
Lucien D. Ivarelle Third Son of King Arthelion IV, Prince of Blech (Though technically not in line for the throne, which—depending on who you ask—is a blessing.)
I reread it twice.
Then a third time, slower.
He'd replied. Not just replied, but replied well. This wasn't some badly formatted scam with dollar signs and grammatical sins. This was articulate. Charming. Just vague enough to keep the mystery alive and just generous enough to be plausible.
And he wanted to meet. At a castle. Of course he did.
He even offered to let me bring five people. Five. Who says that? No one that's planning to kidnap you and harvest your organs says bring friends! That's not serial killer behavior… right?
I stared at the screen, noodle dangling from my fork, trying to calculate how many functioning neurons I had left to question this situation.
I was broke. Tired. And someone just offered me a ride to a castle.
And that, my friends, is how decisions get made.
He really said bring up to five people. Like I was a functioning adult with a team. A posse. A ragtag band of loyal companions willing to charge into the unknown for me.
I didn't even have one.
Andrea didn't count. She was more of a recurring character in the tragicomedy of my life, the type that appears with fanfare, causes temporary chaos, and vanishes mid-arc. I couldn't exactly call her up and say, "Hey, want to come meet a potentially fake prince with me at his castle in case I get murdered?" She'd probably say yes. But for the wrong reasons.
I stared at my contacts list. A graveyard of past classmates, old coworkers, people I ghosted, people who ghosted me, and one guy named "Maybe Mark?" with no recollection of who he was.
So I made the most logical, rational safety decision I could think of.
I shared my live location with Doug. Not because he cared. But because if I got kidnapped, he would absolutely come looking for me.
Not out of concern. But because I still owed him two months' rent.
And Doug didn't let things go. Ever.
To: Lucien D. Ivarelle
Subject: Re: RE: Business Proposal (Confidential)
Dear Lucien (we're dropping the titles now, I feel we've reached that level of intimacy),
You know, it's funny—I don't recall checking "accept invitations to mysterious castles" under my life goals for the year. But here we are.
Sure. Let's meet.
You can send the car tomorrow at 10 AM. I'll be standing awkwardly outside my building, wondering if I'm about to be recruited into a cult, murdered in a dungeon, or gifted millions of dollars and a really uncomfortable title.
If this turns out to be a scam, I'll be very disappointed in myself. But if it's not? Then I guess I'll owe you an apology and a very weird story.
See you soon,
Reed
I hit send. Stared at the screen for a beat longer than necessary. Then I got up and packed.
Small backpack. Essentials only. Phone charger, wallet, a protein bar I found behind the microwave (still sealed—bonus), a bottle of water, and a taser I forgot I owned. I'd bought it two years ago after a break-in scare, and it had been sitting in the bottom of my drawer under expired coupons and a tangled mess of old cords ever since.
I tested it.
The zap startled me. Felt powerful.
Good. If I was going down, I'd at least go down taser-first.
The castle awaited.
And I, a man with a negative bank balance, a possibly cursed backpack, and a single surviving brain cell, was ready for whatever the hell this was.