The man was normal in every way except for the dollar signs in his eyes.

He spoke so lustily about an upcoming lottery that the symbols of wealth popped out to replace his pupils.

It was an amazing thing to see. More amazing was his well-crafted plan in preparation of winning the $216 gazillon prize.

“I have it all figured out,” he said. “I’m not going to tell anybody about it for a week. And in that week, anybody who shows me kindness is going to get a little bit of love.”

By “love,” I assumed he meant “a fistful of cash.” So I complimented him on his hair and allowed him to go on.

“Then I’m going to ask people to write me. Nothing too heavy. Who you are and how you got to where you are. The people who write the 10 best letters, I’ll give them $100,000.”

Then he was going to quit his job and thumb his nose at the boss. Or something more traditional like that.

Frankly, his approach is refreshing. Most people give you the tired line about how they will continue to work at their jobs, give a big hunk of loot to charity and pretty much resume their normal lifestyle.

Stinking liars. If you wake up one day and find yourself with a nine-figure bank account, you’re probably not going to be in the mood to sweep floors, crunch numbers or write a lame column for the newspaper.

For example.

I know people who are not just hoping to win the lottery someday, they’re counting on it. One friend has exotic plans for the money once the check is in his greedy hands. Some of those plans involve grown-up toys, like speedboats, Winnebagos, classic cars and season tickets to the Sox.

Part of his plan is also to get even – once and for all – with all the people who have wronged him since kindergarten. I think he keeps a list of such people in preparation for the day when he has the wealth and might to smite them. God help his fifth-grade teacher if he ever strikes it rich.

Money is like a brain injury in a lot of ways. You take a humble, kind and practical person and give them a few million bucks. Next thing you know, he or she is leaving a goodbye note for the kids and flying off to Tahiti to join a steel drum band.

I’ve always said that winning the lottery would be the end of me. Back in my single days, I avoided lottery tickets like a social disease. If someone had forked over that much dough, I surely would have ended up a splotch on a filthy sidewalk in some Mexican city.

Now I’m all grown up and quite responsible. I still don’t dabble in the lottery much, but if I did bag a giant jackpot, I could think of a few things to do with the winnings. Imagine: no more traffic jams or red lights to slow my advance on a crime scene. No more slow crawl to the action. No, you don’t encounter those things when you’re flying around the city in a spanking new helicopter.

I’m not kidding. A helicopter is the very first thing I would buy with the windfall. Something sleek, shiny and fast as hell. What’s that, you say? Shots fired on outer Sabattus Street? Forget that nasty Sabattus Street traffic clog. To the helipad!

I’m counting on the kindness of the publishers to give me such a launching spot on the roof of the Sun Journal. If they decline, I’ll buy the newspaper and fire them. And while I’m at it, why not buy the newspaper to begin with and start cleaning house? I have plans, my friends. Big plans …

You see? It happens that fast. Start dreaming of big bucks, and your thoughts will turn wicked. You become like little Stewie on “The Family Guy,” bent on revenge and world domination. It’s sickening, I tell you. Sickening.

In the interest of research, I started posing the question to random people. What would you do with a $216 million jackpot?

The malarkey began at once. The first young lady I asked said she would set up foundations and trust funds for her kids. What she really meant is, she’d buy a yacht and more shoes than Imelda Marcos.

I e-mailed a friend of mine with the same question and she wrote back less than two minutes later. She had a list of 10 things she would do with the green. Among the typical drivel about providing educations for her kids were things like four-wheelers, three-wheelers and go-carts.

That’s more like it.

A man I approached with the same question did not utter a word in response. Instead, he pointed to his computer screen and, one by one, began popping up photos of beautiful women.

Money is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

It is unlikely that any of these people will take home the big prize this week or next. It is unlikely that you will, either. But just in case, can I say one last thing?

Your hair looks terrific. You are one attractive son-of-a-gun.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter. Visit his blog at www.sunjournal.com.