Illuminati conspiracy no. 1

Part title

When I was 5, I remember the day I was made part of the new world order. I was at the bus stop, my mom complaining on her phone, ignoring me completely when I noticed him. Maybe it was the way my little girl brain thought his beard made him look like santa clause, or the way he seemed so happy in his baggy, well worn clothes that made me take extreme notice of him, but I remember walking over to him and asking him, with my limited vocabulary, what he thought about the pigeons.

Looking back I could have started a drug deal. Someone accidentally got cocaine in a KFC by asking for extra biscuits and here I was, on the busiest streets of Manhattan asking a homeless guy about pigeons.

He looked at me, a feverish glow twinkling his dark brown eyes as he looked at me with wisdom. I could practically feel my eyes widen as I remembered my mothers well hammered words of  "don't go up to strangers or take gum off the bottom of restaurant seats" but before I could overthink it in a way I could leave, he began to answer.

In an old, quavery voice, the man began to speak slowly, like the speed a tour through an art museum. "Although the pigeons are interesting, especially in the eyes of the youth," he began, winking at me when his lips spoke the thhhh sound of youth, drawn out enough to bring spit. "I always took more notice, in the fact that all tongue prints are  different, like fingerprints."

My face must have mirrored the excitement my voice carried down the street as I exclaimed, "wow really!!"

"Well yes indead, miss," he said smoothly, "and for being such a good sport, why don't you take this dollar."

Oblivious to the irony of a homeless man giving me a dollar, I instead grew even more excited and began to say thank you, to the extent that I didn't even hear my mom yell at me. Yet here she was, as fast as a storm looking into my face in anger and worry, telling me to never leave her side again like I would later learn she would keep to until I left for college. I shuffled my feet as I walked away with her, onto the bus where I chose the window seat, only to watch the man as we drove away.

That afternoon I had eaten dinner, had my full lecture and no dessert because of it, then sat on my small twin bed, covered with stuffed animals, to stare at the dollar I had kept in my pocket. The dollar had grown sweaty and pliable from being gripped so tightly in my little girl hands then being held warm against my thigh so that when I unfolded it, I fully realized how delicate it was.

It wasn't like I'd never seen a dollar, in this society every 5 year old has, but this one was old. Multiple rips and tears crisscrossed the sides to the extent to which I wondered how it had stayed intact. Looking at the point of the pyramid, I noticed a funny shape. Like a triangle with an eye.

For some reason the eye seemed to wink at me, just like that man had.

Unsurely, the mans words ran through my head, "tongue prints are always different," and for some reason, I felt compelled to lick the currency. Sure I'd grown out of discovering things with my mouth (until I reached the older age where it was interesting again) to know that putting things in my mouth that shouldn't be there, such as bleach, would be a unwise decision, yet my mind told me it was necessary.

So I did.

I placed my tongue on the dollar where the triangle was and held it, until everything around me faded, until I reached the inside to the new world orders headquarters.

And that's when the magic happened.