This was originally written for a writing class I took over the Summer in 2021. Some of these stories had prompts, which are noted after the story along with other comments.
Tony Trilton, the world’s first trillionaire, is dead. Tony didn’t exactly get along with his family. His hobbies alienated his parents and drove his wife to a divorce. She took the kids and half of his then-millions. In his last will and testament, he left everything he possessed to his pet gorilla, Barnaby. After learning that some gorillas were trained to speak in sign language, Tony became obsessed with animal intelligence and spent every waking moment of his free time trying to teach animals to talk. Barnaby was his only true success. The octopus ran away before it learned proper grammar and the birds were more interested in making music. They ended up leaving Tony and his scientists to form a birdband and signed on to a very lucrative record deal.
Barnaby was smarter than the average gorilla, or so Tony thought. Really all Barnaby did with his newfound linguistic skills and luxuries of the 0.00000001% was sit around, ask for food, and make gorilla noises at people online in video games. Things changed when Barnaby discovered YouTube. Suddenly, everyone wanted to watch the funny gorilla play video games and scream in sign language. Just as suddenly, Barnaby started getting sponsorship deals left and right. Tony had to step in and do all the negotiating. The first company was offering crates of fruit instead of money and Barnaby was about to agree to that. With Barnaby’s gorilla charm and Tony’s business-savvy brain, Tony was able to grow from a millionaire into a trillionaire. But Tony isn’t alive anymore. Now Barnaby has all the money. And the pool. And the mansion. And the yacht. And the jet. And the private island retreat.
Naturally, the news swarmed to this story like flies to rotting carrion. ‘The Gorillionaire,’ they called him. News trucks flooded the Trilton estate to get an interview. Anchors knocked on the door with the force of a thousand angry drummers. Barnaby was woken up by that sound. Sunlight beamed into the lavish master bedroom as he rolled out of his king sized bed with banana-patterned blankets. He brushed his teeth and threw on a gold-trimmed bath robe. The knocking continued.
“The milkman must be in a hurry today,” thought Barnaby as he made his way down the grand staircase to the Persian rug before the massive mahogany doors. Meanwhile, the milkman couldn’t even get into the driveway.
It had been a few weeks since Tony passed away. At this point Barnaby was used to doing things by himself, but still missed the guy. Nobody knew how Tony kicked the bucket. There were rumors that Barnaby had something to do with it to get at the fortune for himself, but that was impossible. Tony was off in Bermuda. Barnaby was at home eating oranges and playing video games. Barnaby picked up the empty bottles by the door and opened it, ready to greet the milkman. Instead he was met with an onslaught of questions and cameras.
“Mr. Barnaby, what do you plan to do with the Trilton fortune?”
“Mr. Barnaby, what do you think of people calling you ‘The Gorillionaire?’”
“Is it true you were asked to play King Kong in a new movie?”
“What is your relationship with The Birdband?”
“Did Tony Trilton really leave you everything?”
“Is it really true that you know nothing about Tony Trilton’s death?”
“Why should I answer you? What do I get out of it? I don’t know any of you.” Barnaby signed at the nosy newscasters. Suddenly, the questioning squad ceased. While the reporters rumbled among themselves to figure out what he had just said, and what he meant by it, Barnaby noticed the milkman waving to him by the curb. He began politely pushing people past to get there. As he approached the milk truck, several reporters proceeded to pester him with more questions, but Barnaby simply ignored them.
The truck stood proudly by the curb in its cow-print paintjob. A small cow statue sat on the roof. Standing by the truck was Moe, the milkman. Moe had worked in this wealthy neighborhood as a milkman for 15 years. You get to meet some colorful characters in a place like this, but Barnaby was the most interesting. For most, it isn’t every day you get to talk to a mansion-dwelling gorilla in a bath robe. It isn’t for Moe either. He delivers every other day.
“Mornin’, Barney!” Moe chimed as he tipped his hat to the affluent ape.
“Good Morning, Moe,” responded Barnaby with a smile. “Sorry about the mess there,” he signed while motioning towards the cacophonous crowd with his head. “I don’t know what they’re doing here.” Moe enjoyed how straightforward Barnaby was. It was a breath of fresh air from the pompous prattling the other residents subjected him to.
“Hey, don’t worry about it, big guy. They just wanna talk to you. You’ve been a big hit on the news lately what with you inheriting Tony’s everything, Lord rest his soul.” There was a brief moment of silence. Moe cleared his throat.
“Ah yeah, I got your milk here for ya.” Moe handed over some filled bottles while Barnaby gave him his empties.
“Thank you.” Barnaby replied, setting the full bottles down first before signing, of course.
“You should try answering some of the reporters over there. I see you answering questions on that internet show of yers all the time. It’s like that but in real life.”
“But online people pay to ask me things. I didn’t see any of those people offering me anything in return.”
“So why do you answer what I ask?”
“You bring milk here, but more importantly, you’re my friend.”
“How do you know those reporters won’t make good friends?” Barnaby stood and thought for a moment. He didn’t really have many real-life friends beyond Moe. The only people he regularly interacted with were faceless internet users and faceless, soulless, corporate sponsors. It probably wouldn’t hurt to get some more face-to-face interaction.
“I gotta get going, Barney. The guy at the next house’ll chew me out if I’m late again.”
“I suppose I’ll give it a try. See you Thursday, Moe.”
“See ya later, Barney!”
Moe got back into his truck and drove off. Barnaby turned around and returned to the crowd of newscasters. He knew he would talk to the strangers at his door, but first he had to put this milk away before it spoiled. He made his way back inside, put the milk in the fridge, and went back to the door.
“It looks like Barnaby The Gorillionaire has returned to answer some questions,” several casters chattered with slightly different deliveries. The questionnaire went smoothly. Barnaby then shared some laughs with the reporters as he recounted his history with Tony. Overall, it was a grand old time.
As things were quieting down, a new truck pulled up to the mansion. It was dark gray with blacked out windows. From it stepped a mysterious character clad in a dark trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat. In the middle of summer. The mystery man shoved his way through the others to get to Barnaby.
“You does thinks you ams deserving of Trilton’s moneys?” the stranger snapped in a strange, gargley voice.
“What?” Barnaby replied, bewildered by the sudden hostility.
“Me ams beings true heir of moneys!” the mystery man screeched, throwing off his coat. This wasn’t a mystery man. It was a mystery octopus. A mystery octopus with a strange gadget embedded in its head. It was wearing one of Tony’s suits. The suit had a red stain near the chest. In the center of the stain was a hole. In the octopus’s arm was a gun.
This one didn't have a prompt. The idea for the story came from an image I found online some time ago.