There was a fairly recent theme on the Bulwer-Lytton competition (the results of most recent which can be found here), so this time let’s do a variant: post the last 100 words of the most awful novel never written.
“But will I never see you again?” his Mother begged him.
“No,” he said, looking upon her with sad fondness, “you’ve made it clear my work at the European Monetary Union is offensive to you. But in turn, no longer shall you receive any leftover obsolete currency from the storage vaults — no more Lire, Drachmas, Pesetas, nor Deutschmarks. No matter how much I care for you, I cannot hand over any of to you.”
“But, not even my beloved French bank notes, my Son? Where shall I go for them? What shall I do?”
“Dearly, my Dam, I won’t give a Franc.”