When the Moon Hits Your Eye

by John Scalzi

Mackie pointed. “Exactly. One of the richest men in the history of this planet. Richer than Rockefeller. Richer than Croesus. Richer than Scrooge McDuck.” “No one’s richer than Scrooge McDuck,” Peter said. “Wrong,” Mackie said. “He’s worth, like, fifty billion, tops.” “There was a comic where he said that if he spent a billion dollars a minute, he’d be broke in six hundred years, which would put his worth in the mid quadrillions,” Peter said. “And that was in the seventies. It might be in the quintillions now with inflation.” “He’s self-reporting,” Cyrus said. “You can’t trust rich people to honestly tell you what they’re worth. Even a duck.” “Especially a duck,” Lisa chimed in, for the hell of it. “Realistically,” Mackie said, “he’s worth about fifty billion.” “Realistically, for a cartoon duck,” Peter said. “I’m trying to get to my point,” Mackie protested. “Oh, well, please.” Peter made an expansive motion with his hand. “Leaving Scrooge McDuck out as a fictional and mathematically trivial outlier,” Mackie continued, “Jody Bannon was one of the richest people who ever lived. And how did he die? Penetrated by cheese.” “Penetrated by cheese on the moon,” Cyrus amended. “Okay, but does that matter?” Mackie said. “No matter where you are in the universe, death by cheese is a pretty ignominious way to go. Has there ever been a worse way?” “In the Great Molasses Flood of 1919, twenty-one people were drowned in syrup,” Peter said. “Well. Some drowned. Others were crushed.” “I ...