[ WP ] You 're main character wants to summon the demon patron of wealth , but instead , they end up with his child , the demon of loose change .

Poverice, the demon of loose change. Poverice because he's not quite avarice, and he's not quite poverty. Poverice. Why did I say poverice?! I did n't say poverice. I summoned Avarice, but in my zeal and flair for the dramatic, I had said `` Let my wealth never stop, Avarice!'' And the p from stop just carried over to the beginning of Avarice, and suddenly, in a puff of smoke and that strange metallic smell of pennies, there stood Poverice. 
 
 Loose change fell from his body, clinking their way onto the floor, one quarter rolling down the stairs of my attic, plink plonking with every step until it rill-roll-rill-rolled to a stop at the bottom of the steps. I stood there, looking at him, slack-jawed. He just handed me a bunch of change, and dissipated. 
 
 And from then on, it's been a damn nightmare. I started finding loose change in my couch, in my pockets and in my hot pockets. That's right. They were even in my food. They were in my soup, my salads and my sandwiches. Quarters were in my kitchen, dimes were on the dinner table, nickels were in the knick-knack drawer. I had half-dollars in my tchotchke drawer, Sacajawea's stuck in my cellar door, and pennies pouring from the potted plants. It was getting insufferable. 
 
 I tried one time to collect it all, take it to the bank and convert them all into bills. Yeah, that's the ticket! No go. The moment I touched the bill, it broke apart into its constituent loose change, like that Skittles commercial where everything you touch turns to skittles. I was like King Midas, except his power is awesome in comparison. 
 
 So now, I have no choice but to kill myself. As I raise this gun up to my head, and I pull the trigger, I will end this miserable life, this unfortunate, penny-pinching, random-change finding, loose coin filled life. Geronimo! 
 
... 
 
... 
 
... 
 
 The bullets turned into a handful of pennies. I'm not dead. I just have Lincoln imprinted onto my forehead, and it stings. 
 
 DAMN YOU, POVERICE.
