Mostly, I like 'odd-spots', quirky items that prompt a chortle, a chuckle, a choke. Today's was about a woman employed as a writer for fortune-cards that go with the famous 'Zoltar' fortune-telling machines. Apparently, her partner left so she got drunk and wrote some cynical fortunes she never meant to pass on. Complaints came in from people paying to discover that 'Life will just kick you in the guts. Stay in bed, it's safer.' A newly-wed learned that 'Love is a rose. A rotten, shrivelled, shat-on-by-a-dog rose' while a distraught retiree was shocked to find that "Hope is dead. Like your soul. Like you. Any day now.' She lost the job but I had to laugh. You just have to, don't you?

When I was a kid, my mate Nick put coins in a Zoltar machine, eager for a prophecy, only to hear the gurgling whir of a voice-box slowly dying. The sign proclaimed 'Zoltar Speaks' but, in our case, he most certainly did not. Nick waited for our man Z to spit out the goods on the future but the card jammed in the slot, only slightly visible. We tried to pinch and pull it but could only tear a tiny piece off that said, Zolt.

Walking away, Nick, ever-the-optimist, punched me in the shoulder. "Hey, I know how we can make some money! I could dress up and be Zoltar like Dad dresses up as Santa. People could pay me to tell fortunes. We can ask Miss Maloney for a table at the school fete. We'll be rich!"

I doubted telling fortunes could make a fortune but I was always along for Nick's ride. Miss Maloney gave us a tasselled gold-coloured robe from her store-room, a leftover from the annual nativity play. My grandad had a box full of varied head-wear (don't ask) and, sure enough, in amongst the colonial, the ceremonial and a black beret, we found a turban.

The fete was on us so fast we hadn't time for the planned dummy-runs with family but Nick was confident and, as we set up that morning, he shared a new part of the ploy. "This is where you come in. Wander around and eavesdrop on conversations then tell me things you discover. Point out the relevant people. I'll use your intel for the fortunes."

I didn't mind playing pretend-spy and got quite a kick out of sidling up to pockets of people, learning that Brad had a hangover, Jacqui had a bone to pick and Michelle had had enough. And that was just the one family. All across the playground, I found that everyone was irked and irritated by something but that fairy floss seemed to make everything okay.

While I was on reconnaissance, a few of our school-mates, and even some teachers, helped out by lining up to get business rolling. Nick used prior knowledge and assumptions to offer some comments hopefully halfway relevant. He told Mr Duffy, he who had never heard of a toothbrush, that the near future would be 'a breath of fresh air' while Sally from Year 5 was chuffed to be told that 'your smile will light up every room you enter.' Her dad was a dentist.

Zoltar-Nick took a quick drinks-break and I scurried by to relay that the tall woman in green was excited for an overseas holiday and the small man in brown was about to have surgery on a dodgy heart. Nick frowned - "Is that all?" Unfortunately, I'd forgotten the many interesting snippets I'd gleaned and hadn't thought of bringing a pad and pen.

Trying to be more helpful, I switched to spruiker mode, honing in on my marks to shepherd tall-woman and small-man towards Zoltan-Nick. Success! He took the coins and furrowed his brow, emitting a drone of deliberation before bellowing out, 'Mrs, you'll soon meet a man in a mask who is wielding a knife. Sir, despite the turbulence, you'll soon be going to a better place."

The seconds of silence were interminable so I yelled, "Zoltan speaks!" and applauded so raucously all in the vicinity joined in, though tall-woman and small-man seemed to walk away slightly unsure. Zoltan-Nick, however, was sure he'd had enough so he counted up the coins, flicked a couple my way, and shut up shop.

Fortune-telling is still prevalent these days of course, through reading palms and tea-leaves, through astrology and even Zoltar himself. Years after the fete, I saw an advertisement in the newspaper revealing Nick had become a financial advisor, another kind of fortune-telling really. I was unsurprised and also relieved as I'd just come into some cash from a modest lottery win and was unsure how to proceed.

I called Zolt Finances and spoke to Nick who told me he couldn't call the company 'Zoltar' as it had been licensed by the people who make Zoltar dummies. Nick was happy to catch up and enthusiastically predicted big things, confidently outlining how he would amplify my winnings. Borne along by his energy, I nodded as he explained that investing my life savings on top of the lottery-win would ensure maximum success. I understood none of it but signed the forms and waited to see what the future would bring.

Turns out the immediate future was a grave-faced Nick telling me things had, unfortunately, not gone to plan. My winnings, my savings were gone. So were my morals. I recall I felt absurdly dispassionate as I strangled Nick. Like a corkscrew, I wrenched him down to the ground, the only sound, the gurgling whir of a voice-box slowly dying.

So, as I sat this morning in the prison-yard, reading of Zoltar in the daily paper, I had to laugh. You just have to, don't you?

Derek Fisher, of New Lambton, is a finalist in this year's Newcastle Herald short story competition.