Mr. Compound-Interest — Adds a Tip Line to His Birthday Card

Lyrics

His name is Mr. Compound-Interest.But you don't call him that to his face.You just feel the chill when he enters the room.The quiet hum of the abacus in his head.He's not a bad man. He's just... precise.October twenty-fourth, twenty-twenty-two.Ten seventeen in the morning.The community food bank, smelling of canned beans and disinfectant.Sarah Chen, behind the counter, she watched him.He didn't put his money in the clear plastic jar.Not at first.First, he leaned over, his shadow falling on the coins.He counted them.His lips moved. A whisper about yields.Then he added his own pennies.As if correcting a ledger.And the air gets a little thinner when he's around.A quiet hum of numbers being run.Every kindness has a cost basis.Every friendship, a long-term return.Greed, you see, isn't a monster.It's just a man with a calculator on a chain.Clicking.December twelfth, a year later.David and Emily Thompson's new place.Roast chicken, a decent red wine.Eight thirty in the evening.He asked about the property values, the rates, the closing costs.He asked three times.Emily's smile got tight.David stared into his gravy."So, what did you actually pay for this place, all in?"And the conversation died right there at the table.A quiet, taxable death.And the air gets a little thinner when he's around.A quiet hum of numbers being run.Every kindness has a cost basis.Every friendship, a long-term return.Greed, you see, isn't a monster.It's just a man with a calculator on a chain.Clicking.Somewhere on an old laptop, there's a file.'Friends & Assets.' Updated weekly.He once argued diminishing returns on the novelty of a birthday cake.He once added a tip line to a get-well-soon card.He imposes a transactional worldview.A social burden you have to carry.A gift is just a debt you haven't calculated yet.The buttons are worn smooth on his Casio.He's not a bad man.He just needs to know the price of everything.And the value of nothing.