A Man With an Idea

Find a Purpose.
John Marks was a man with an idea. This idea, he knew, could change the world. It was about a single $10 bill, and a chance to pay it forward.

Times of oppression, times of mass injustice; these timese where what Marks had to live with, day in and day out. He wasn't the poorest of the poor; he had an apartment, a dog, even a bike, but he wasn't wealthy, or even well off by any means.
Marks took this ten dollar bill, and with the intentions of hope, of perhaps finding some sort of purpose in his life, he wrote on that bill "Find a good use". He took every ten dollar bill he could find and wrote this phrase and many others, hoping that with this, he could find another, one that he had not wrote, somewhere out there, that another had found, and passed it on.
Most ten dollar bills end up in the banks, after a merchant had taken it from a customer, and cashed it into the safe. But perhaps maybe this was a way to keep the money in the hands of the community. He started a blog and website on this idea.

Jake Trenton pulled the 80 American dollars from his back pocket, handing it to the "bean" salesman in return for the 3 grams of weed. Morroco wasn't the place to be fucking around with drugs, but his friends told him it was legit, so he went out on a limb for it. The Middle East was strict on drug abuse, and made sure to make any Americans' life a living hell when they could. Jake found himself surrounded by the police just a few minutes after he took his first hit, down by the market, in an alley way. Damn bean seller snictched on him. Man, shit got crazy, one of the cops may have had an uzi, but who knows. Needless to say, he went to lockup until his court date; having no bail money saved.

John had become somewhat of a habit; he liked to travel never being in one place for too long. He was known to just pick up and leave and be seen only once a year, sometimes never returning. It was just six years ago when he was 17 and wrote his blog and all the ten dollar bills, and now he was in Morroco, just getting in, and looking for the motel, or an inn or something. Where did Americans go to in this country anyway? There had to be a hostel where there were some white faces. He wasn't racist, but lets face it, that's what we're all thinking.
He found an inn, but damn it if he had luck with finding white faces. Hell no, little did he know, he found the local den, a mistranslation on his part in asking for directions. He thought the market lady had looked at him a bit odd like when he had asked her, but shit, his Arabic was as good as his stamina, piss poor. It finally hit him that he was in the wrong place when the turbaned man came up to him with a needle and a spoon.
He took it, and was about to set it down when the door was busted open, letting in the lights from the car flood through the doorway. Five police came rushing in. Hell, one of them may have had an uzi, who knows. Needless to say, John ended up in lockup, with no money for bail.

"John Marks, on the charges of your sentence, you are hereby sentenced to 5 years, without the possibility of parole." The judges gavel slammed down. John was halled off to the hell-pit they call a prison. It was a steel cage, with a concrete building in the center, very primitive.
"Jake Trenton, on the charges of your sentence, you are hereby sentenced to 5 years, without the possibility of parole." The gavel fell down.
The bus to the prison was a simple cargo truck, most likely the same the military used. The cells were just steel pins, with small cots in the corners, conveniently placed right next to the shitter.
"Names Jake."
"John..." He shook the white man's hand, glad to finally see some skin that wasn't charcole.
"Glad to see an American here...Well, you know what I mean."
"Yeah, I know."

Later on that night, John Marks needed to take a shit so bad he could taste it! Ever had to shit that bad...we neither have I, but holy fuck that's beyond prairie dogging, man. That's just brutal.
Problem: No toilet paper.
He searched, he looked, he searched high and low, even under the lows. Nothing.
"Here, it's no use here anyway." Jake passed him the ten dollar bill from his pocket, seeing John doing the "I have to take a big shit" dance.
"Man, tha..."
"Just go." Jake cut him off, trying to sleep as his cellmate took his shit. His face was but ten inches from the toilet, and he could hear every healthy plump into the bowl. He could have faced the other way, but that was was facing downhill, and the blood would rush to his head. Imagine that, the choice between a headache and getting the feedback from your cellmate's last meal. If there were ever a depressing moment in a man's life, this is surely it!
In the glimmer of the cold cell's walls, a tourch light filtered through to the toilet bowl. It was Johns throne, his spotlight for the evening. He chuckled.
Jake was all like...What the fuck, why is this bitch chuckling?
John then began to examine the ten dollar bill, having nothing else to do as his ass exploded on him. On the font, there was written. "Fuck a purpose, buy some toilet paper"
MUTHERFUCKER!!!!
All his hopes, all his aspirations as a teenager, all concluded by a cell and a piece of bright green toilet paper. But in the end, he saw the beauty...he had changed the world, even for just the night, having saved his own ass, sort of speak. He began chuckling out of control.
Jake turned around in his cot, facing down towards the other end, letting the blood rush to his head. "Fuckin' loonies."