On Friday, the second winner of the record $587.5 million Powerball jackpot stepped forward to claim his prize anonymously.
Was the "electronics industry professional" trying to protect himself from us, the unwashed, rabid public who would slit your throat for a ha'penny if they had 60/40 odds of getting away with it?
Or was he trying to protect himself from his cloying, judging, e'er watchful neighbors, as described by the AP:
Neighbors said they were slightly acquainted with Good and described him as a generous, amiable person who keeps up his property.
Randy Tanner, who lives next door, said Good has a warm relationship with his daughter, who is about 5. Good recently helped Tanner carry a table to a friend's house in the neighborhood.
The AP searched property records to discover that Good, a Pennsylvania transplant, bought his home in the "affluent Phoenix suburb" of Fountain Hills just two years ago for $289,900.
The real estate listing describes the house as having gorgeous mountain views, vaulted ceilings, a backyard with an outdoor kitchen and a three-car garage.
The home, it notes, "has a tile roof and desert landscaping."
How many times has Good stared at those mountains as Dawn's pink fingers plucked away the silver cobwebs of early morning mist and said to himself "I could leave right now. Put the truck in neutral and glide down the hill without making a sound. I could be in those hills by high noon, carving my own table out of Chihuahua pine and moving it wherever I pleased, with no help from nobody."
How many times has his gaze then fallen to the tile-roofed home just across the cactus patch, as he thought "but what of the child?"
How many times have Good's tortured cries echoed off those vaulted ceilings, after yet another neighbor has dropped by to "remind" him with honeyed words, cold eyes and a clamping, bear trap handshake that "this is the kind of neighborhood where one keeps up with one's property."
How many times has he stood, shivering as he cooked a fine Christmas goose in his bonus kitchen foolishly constructed out-of-doors, and looked around at the scrub, dust, and dried-up beetle carcasses that are his "yard" ("desert landscaping," the AP sneers) and said to himself "God never meant for men to live in this place."
How many times has Good considered bursting into his three car garage, tripping over a hula hoop that—who put that there?— starting the ignitions one-two-three, and waiting for Death to beckon him into the mountain fortress of his dreams.
Probably zero! He was rich and now he's super extra rich. Congrats on being rich, everybody.