AN: This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, incidents, and dialogue, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are imaginary and are not intended to refer to any living persons or to disparage any company's products or services.

Ron Millionaire: Everyone Has a Price

Ned has just handed me an envelope, "From the boys in corporate." The envelope has a subheading: Naco Royalties Check. I reminisce a bit over my creation, the Naco. What a wondrous day in history. Kim says something derisive, but I ignore her.

Bonnie, who has been harassing me from behind, grows impatient at my dawdling. "Can I order now, please?"

"Un momento, por favor." Kim says, although I'm not really listening to her. "Open the envelope Ron; maybe the check's big enough for you to Grande Size."

I rip open the edge of the envelope, not knowing what to expect. The last check I received was barely enough to buy that Club Banana jacket for Kim. Which, although she loved, she immediately exchanged. I slide the check out and feel faint, my head is swimming. My mouth dries, I begin to stammer. I try to speak, but am unable to. "It's for nuh-nuh-nuh... Nine…"

The simultaneous shouts of Kim and Bonnie break my stupor. "Ninety-nine million dollars!"

Bonnie immediately latches onto me, pressing her hot body tightly to my back, running a hand through my hair. "Ron Stoppable, you are such a hottie." She says, dropping her free hand from my shoulder into my front pants-pocket.

"Are you saying that because I'm rich?" I ask after a beat.

"Uh huh." She pants into my ear, licking it lightly, as her fingers dig deeper into my pocket.

A money grubbing whore, that is just so, "Cool!"

Sadly, she removes herself from me, "Call me later, after you cash that check Ronnie." She leans into my shoulder, pressing her breasts against me, kissing my cheek before she walks out.

I think Kim is saying something, but it is incomprehensible to me. I'm lost in thought. About Bonnie. About the money. Every fantasy, a reality. Every possibility a reality. Reality.

The bleak reality that is my life. I find myself sitting in a booth. It's not even a good one, being that it is too far from the counter. Kim asks me, or tells me. "You know money can't buy happiness, right?"

Happiness, Ninety-nine million. Satisfaction, Ninety-nine million. Bonnie, Ninety-nine million. Kim, Ninety-nine million. Tara, Ninety-nine million. Sex, Ninety-nine million. Bonnie, Ninety-nine million. Sex with Bonnie, Ninety-nine million dollars.

I wave the check, which is by now rather crumpled, in her face. "Are you sure KP?" A question that I don't expect her to actually answer, and she doesn't. She just gives me that look. The same look as when I had that stylish haircut. When I was using the HenchCo ring.

An empty plate sits on the table before me. I may have eaten my entire entrée, without even knowing it. Or perhaps Rufus did. I'm not certain.

Kim has the most beautifully deep emerald-green eyes I have ever seen. Why I am just now noticing that, I'm not sure. She raises an eyebrow and is about to speak.

"Oh, okay, I get it." I say, cutting her off. "You think this is gonna be one of those times when I suddenly turn into some out-of-control guy and go way overboard with the whole money thing."

She pauses, carefully answers, "Well, yeah."

I hear myself saying that the money will not change me. I even find myself wanting to believe it. I stand up and excuse myself, "I need to go." I head out of Bueno Nacho and begin to walk uptown. Hopefully I can get to the bank before it closes. I do.

A Mr. Joshua Mallon, God I hate him so. Like I don't have enough people named Josh to deal with. Is more than eager to assist me in managing my new found fortune. He suggests a money market account, for easier access. I insist on putting a million or so into a more readily available source. Cash.

Cash is, as I have noticed, a most persuasive argument. Accepted everywhere and easy to carry. I step from the bank lobby and hail a passing cab. I climb in and tell the driver, who appears to be Puerto Rican, "Upperton."

The cab makes several stops. I have him wait while I shop. A new wardrobe, nothing but the finest. Some hangers on, several bodyguard types and a few personal assistants. As well as an apartment, furnished of course.

I don't give the building manager my real name, not that it would matter. I'm only 17. I can't sign a binding lease. "Call me Mr. Franklin." I say, handing him $100,000. Two years rent, plus a bonus for himself.

My immediate business dealings finished, I have the cabbie drive me home. I stiff him on the tip. Not like I'll ever see him again anyway.