paul harvey is still missed

anyway ... jimmy being jimmy he proceeds to go out and get shit-faced, which at his age doesn't take much and, of course, he is still hauling around a small fortune.  now, as much as I love the bywater and new orleans, this isn't exactly the town you want to be walking around with your pockets lined with cash in large denominations.  the people at the bar know this, and despite the slew of free drinks, have been consistently heckling jimmy over his excruciating lack of common sense.  finally, at some point late in the evening, jimmy begins to get a little paranoid.  all the talk round the bar has sunk into his blood stream and with the whiskey goes straight to his brain.  suddenly the women aren't so beautiful and the men have become faceless assailants from which his stash must be well hidden.  and so jimmy walks home, drunk and notorious for hiding valuables all over his house when loaded and then subsequently forgetting the locations.  and no one sees him for a couple days.  it's nothing unusual and life in the bar continues as it should.  then one night jimmy slumps through the bar door, his face painted dark by a look of pathetic dejection, muttering almost incomprehensibly about how he can't find the 4500 from the other night.  "jimmy, what the fuck, man?  did you make home all right?"  yeah, he got home.  "well, did you search your house and all the usual spots?"  yeah, of course he spent the last two days turning his house upside down.  "and?"  nothing.  nada.  nathan.  there was not a cent to be found in the entire house.  needless to say, you don't lose 4500 and expect to get off lightly, but after the initial humor of the situation had passed, people eventually begin to feel for the man.  I mean really, I lost $10 once and nearly shit bricks of despair.  one can only imagine.  so as the days pass search parties are sent in waves to jimmy's house, but eventually they become less and less frequent and jimmy is forced to slowly reconcile himself to the fact that his money has vanished into the ether because of what can only be described as sheer stupidity.  and for the next few months jimmy must endure the louisiana winter alone with his thoughts, his normally lecherous vibrance depressed by the cold and shame of the whole sorry turn of events.  "any luck, jimmy?"  his head would just fall towards the bar in a grim response.  none such.  but the not so strange nature of time pushes the months forward into spring, its bags packed with sun and warmth and green and with the heat comes central air.  so one day, a few people sitting at jimmy's house find themselves in need of a breeze and so jimmy walks over to turn on the ceiling fan ... and sure enough, as soon as that dirty little bastard hit the switch it starts raining down cold hard cash ... a storm of 100 dollar bills falling on the breeze.  jimmy was a happier man after that. the mystery solved.  turns out that short mother fucker had gone home that one night and somehow managed to stash his wad in piles up on the blades of the ceiling fan.  he of course forgets all about it the next morning and it being the dead of winter has no reason whatsoever to turn on the fan.  and so his money sat there for months, unbeknownst to him and anybody else, a grizzly lesson in how to handle your cash, hibernating and waiting for the spring.  

"and that is the rest of the story"