[ WP ] You are the luckiest person on Earth . Everything you make an attempt for works in your favor . However , there two catches : you are absorbing the luck of those around you , and anyone who tries to profit from your luck ( even with your help ) is met with the worst luck immediately .

The Jin seemed nice enough, even gave me a pick of which mountain based on a free trial period. At the end of the night, I had picked a remote mountaintop near the end of the world, an antique typewriter and a weekly income that would keep me comfortable for the rest of my life. There was paperwork involved, of course, but my lawyer had looked it over and found it safe. He had been our family lawyer since the Sixties, so I believed him. 
 
 Now what do I do? I asked the Jiin, whose name was James. Close your eyes, or keep them open. Tap your toes, fingers or head. Doesn ’ t really matter. Did you read the fine print? My employer.. 
 
 It ’ s fine, eh James. If you can ’ t trust your lawyer, who can you trust? 
 
 But he wasn ’ t there anymore. No one was but a little old man who was coming up the lane, leaning heavily on a stick. He started to scream obscenities, I ’ ll call him James the Second. Odd little fellow, might be good for a short story. He could pound all he wants, I need my writing time. 
 
 Fifteen minutes later, my typewriter jammed. 
 
 Frustrated, I called up concierge ( included in the Gold plan ) to replace my Remington and to bring me the freshest fruits and potent wine. Inspiration seemed to be clogged by the man, still screaming, on my porch. 
 
 My leg started to shrivel and bend back, taking on a gray hue. The Muse took me full force and demanded that I write out a fifty thousand word story—then and there. My stomach ached and my temples burned, but on I wrote. Complicated story structure and brilliant themes came pouring out of my bleeding, cracked fingers. 
 
 Where was that delivery guy? 
 
 Hours, perhaps days later a man in a silver top hat knocked at my hovel door. “ Delivery! ” he cried. I tucked my fingers into my pockets, now bent and arthritic. The book, nearly done. 
 
 All at once, he was upon me tackling me to the ground. I heard him rummaging around in the backroom, looking for my typewriter I suppose. As he passed me, he threw me back to the floor, “ I heard you were up here. Mr. Prescott ( that was my lawyers name.. ) told me to fetch this. He glanced at my fingers and laughed. “ Now you ’ ll be famous for writing with your toes! ” 
 
 Fifty feet from the front door, the man who had been circling my hovel screaming, threw a dagger that hit the con man in the left temple. 
 
 Once the deed was accomplished, the disheveled man licked the blade clean and placed it back into his ragged clothes. “ Why did you just save me? Who sent you? ” 
 
 “ No one, ” he replied. “ This is the headquarters for the Living with Flesh Eating Disease. Thought you may be a trespasser, but I see you fit right in. ” Indeed, the gray tone had turned to blackened purple and had spread up my torso. 
 
 “ You don ’ t understand, mister. I just wanted to write a best-selling book from my private home in the mountains. ” 
 
 “ And you shall, Jim. You shall. ”
