Matthew Hanlon started out in nineteen aught seventy five and realized, quickly, that there was an extra aught in there, where it shouldn’t have been. No one had any idea how it got there, or what it was doing, it was just there.
So he ignored it, happily, or as happily as you can when you’ve got sand in your swimming trunks, which is a little bit like that aught was. Sand in your swimming trunks. Or rain on your wedding day. Which, coincidently, there was none. On Matthew Hanlon’s wedding day. To the chief person to whom he tells stories (besides himself).
The other chief people to whom he tells stories are far shorter than he, at present, and far cuter. This isn’t, as you might be imagining, a colony of midget hamster people living in his back closet and whom he keeps fed with an assortment of gummy bears and almonds. No, that’s not it at all.
And you, of course. He’s telling stories to you. He hasn’t (likely) met you, since he’s not allowed out very often, but he heard from a friend of a friend that you needed a story, or money, one of the two, and couldn’t remember which it was you needed, so he settled on a story or two. And he hopes that works out for you.
* (digitally only, as we said, he doesn’t get out much)