Back in the "golden days," as he called them, Bob Yonky had been an artist.
His head was full of symbolic and passionate thoughts that he longed to splash out on paper. "Cival War in Heaven"--his first real painting--sold to an abstract art collector for about three hundred dollars. Which wasn't much, but, Bob figured, he could only go up from there.
Unfortunately, no one really seemed to understand the point of his paintings. When no one except his Mother would buy one--and, as she told him later, it had only been out of pity--he decided to switch to being a muralist.
When he was twenty-five years old, Bob was hired by the city to paint a mural on the side of the Children's Community Theater, a daycare for toddlers and preschoolers whose parents wanted them to become familliar with acting. Proudly he painted a fifteen-foot long rendition of "Civil War in Heaven"--but the violence and grotesque symbolic nature of the painting was deemed innapropriate for it's location, and the mural was replaced with a flower garden by another artist.
Bob saw that his chances of making a living while doing what he loved were too improbable to wish upon, but he accepted his faliure as an artist with good grace, and he went on to become the head manager at K-mart instead--with only a easel and canvas in the most remote corner of the garage that he could paint on occasionally as the only memory of his past career. Still he bought a lottery ticket weekly, maybe because somewhere deep inside him he was hoping that it would help him realize his dreams.
This was the story that appeared on the front page of the High Press Journal, the small town's newspaper a couple of days later. It also mentioned Bob's wish as what to do with the money--and within a few days he was being offered a variety of places he could purchase on which to paint his gigantic mural.
Bob finally picked out the perfect spot. An old fisherman and his fisherman friends had set up a little housing district on the coast. It was shielded by a large concrete wall almost two miles long--perfect for painting a mural on. Bob paid the men two million dollars to allow him to paint on the surface.
"Well," he said the Carla and Susan as he stood looking at the blank wall shortly after his purchase was made, "What shall we paint?"